


help i've fallen and i can't find my grace

by jad



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (reader beware), (sorry ignore me), (they deserved it), (who exactly decided that tag?), (why not just deamon?), Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dean Winchester's Appallingly Low Self-Esteem, Dean/Cas Big Bang, Dean/Cas Big Bang Challenge 2017, Devil-May-Care demon!Dean, Explicit Sexual Content, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, M/M, Surgeon General's warning for blood/gore, Welcome to Miami, accidental detour via quantum theory, allusions to past abuse, and a little bit of vivisection, because I'm not tagging every instance of a bad memory here, caveat lector, deanmon, demonic PTSD, gratuitous amounts of impurity, istg it ends well, loose interpretation of appropriate behavior between best friends, minor/secondary character death, nobody important dies, platonic married couple syndrome, s9 canon, the Arkansas Chainsaw Massacre, this is basically a coming-of-age story via demonic vacation, trueforms, wings out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-30
Updated: 2017-11-30
Packaged: 2019-02-05 07:25:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 111,723
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12789672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jad/pseuds/jad
Summary: If there’s one thing Dean's good at it’s killing, and now, with the Mark of Cain hungry on his forearm, the First Blade in his hand, and no qualms when it comes to the intricacies of right and wrong, he can showcase his talents as much as he wants. And hewants.Crowley is quick to sink in his hooks and get a Winchester on his side. Sam is determined to get his brother back, to save him no matter the cost, but Castiel isn't sure Dean wants to be saved.Weakened by failing grace and running out of time, Castiel has to make the hard choice: kill the man he’s given everything for, or sacrifice  everything he stands for to bring him back. [DCBB17]





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, uh. Hi. This story has been scratching at my brain since the s9 finale aired. It's changed a lot since then, and, frankly, the amount of plot I originally planned didn't make the cut, and it's still over a 100k. Oops. **I have literally seen _none_ of s10+, so any canon influences you see are purely coincidental.** Canon tends to stick in my head and needle me into making my words compliant, so I abstained keeping up with the show to get this out. I am going to wince my way through a s10-13 marathon the minute this is posted and not a second before, because by then it'll be too late to delete it.
> 
> First and foremost, thank you to the mods for being organized, patient, kind, flexible, and most of all, amazingly fun to work with. You guys are gift to the fandom. Another enormous helping of thank-yous to the support I've gotten from all the folks in DCBB chat, whether it be 1k1hr's, screaming about the cast at cons, general hand-holding and a shoutout to [Fan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanforfanatic), for literally writing my summary for me. An extra special mention, of course, to my amazing artist, **Sevenspirals** , for not just bringing my ideas to life with her incredible talent, but also becoming a close friend along the way. Artwork is embedded ([tumblr art post](http://sevenspirals.tumblr.com/post/168489678236/dcbb17-art-masterpost-title-help-ive-fallen-and)), but please take a moment to check out her amazing works [here](http://sevenpointedspiral.tumblr.com) as well.
> 
> I'd be remiss without singling out [Museaway](http://archiveofourown.org/users/museaway/pseuds/museaway) for being there at the beginning of this madness all the way to the end, a constant friend through anything and everything, and taking the time to read this over one last time to keep me from looking like a complete idiot. She holds the contract on my soul and has earned it a million times over. (Seriously, I can't believe this is finally _done_. Roping you into watching SPN was the best thing I've ever done.)
> 
> And last but definitely not least, words simply do not exist to describe how much I owe my life to my beta [Remmyme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/remmyme/pseuds/remmyme). You have been with me through each individual word of this story, every stalled scene and insecure meltdown. You are literally the best friend anyone could ask for, and I still don't know what I did to deserve you. I couldn't have gotten this done without your help and, more importantly, your friendship. This one's for you.

**in my time of dying**

* * *

_know i’ve done wrong_  
_i left your heart torn_  
_that's what devils do_  
_took you so low_  
_where only fools go_  
_i shook the angel in you_

_it’s unforgivable_  
_i stole and burnt your soul_  
_that's what demons do_  
_they rule the worst of me_  
_destroy everything_  
_they bring down angels like you_  
  
_now i'm rising from the ground_  
_rising up to you_  
_filled with all the strength i found_  
_there's nothing i can't do_  
_and i need to know now_  
_can you love me again?_

 

0.

 

When Michael comes for Castiel, the sky is reminiscent of the Beginning, before there was anything aside from God and his Will.

The ocean spans the horizon, and its grey waves lap at the coast of what God's creations call Oregon. The mistpouffer of Michael's arrival is muted beneath the fog and the erratic crash of water against the shore, barely shaking the ancient trees rooted deep into the rocky cliff face Castiel is perched on. There are many places upon this earth Castiel likes to watch from, but this desolate, pristine deciduous rainforest would be one of his favorites, if he was allowed to have one.

He has been freed from his millennia of duty for four months; not long, in the grand scheme, but Castiel is grateful when Michael calls. Since his charge had fallen prey to the darkness, Castiel has been wandering. It's lonely. He has never had such freedom, and he does not like it.

The calendar says today is Thursday. His day. The arbitrary date and time are immaterial, but the name of the day itself holds some meaning. His old garrison is waiting for him when he arrives, weapons and wings sharp. The prophecy is unfolding, and many of them are about to die. They are glad to. It's their ultimate purpose, to serve at God's pleasure. They know nothing else.

Castiel has never been to Hell. It is as layered as Heaven, almost infinite in its folds. The atmosphere is made of pain and regret and sinful delight. Demonkind scatter as they break through, screaming in fear and fury, but their shrieks hold nothing to those of the damned, lost souls begging for rescue or simply oblivion. Castiel and his brethren ignore them and move on.

They slow as they forge deeper; the demons here are old and do not scare so easily. This is not the first time they have seen God's warriors, and they do not show fear. They fight back, ruthless and reckless. Castiel sees some of his brothers and sisters fall. He will miss them, and he may eventually join them, but it's unimportant. Only the mission matters, and Castiel has no doubt they will succeed; Michael is with them, and he is less a being than a force — not of Nature, but of God, blinding and fierce and a finality. He can do this alone, if he must, but Castiel is honored to lead his garrison with the archangel.

Castiel finds their target first. He has spent the better part of three decades watching this soul, seeing it burst into blinding radiance from the moment of birth, watching it grow and gather more scars than most its age. It was Michael's responsibility, but many things are, and Castiel was chosen to stand in his place, to watch over in his stead. Castiel has spent his existence watching humanity, so it seemed fitting; but Castiel had never watched a single soul develop from an idea to conception to adulthood, had never followed the second-to-second stream of growth etched by choices.

It was fascinating, to watch Dean Winchester grow into a man, destined to be the Vessel that brings about the End. From the first screams of infancy to the final screams ripped out of him by the hound, Castiel has watched, a silent bystander, though not as impartial as mandated. Castiel occasionally herded the nightmares away when Dean was fitful in his sleep, healed the liver deteriorated by alcohol, moved Dean that vital centimeter to the left to prevent the occasional scar. He was, after all, Michael's sword — Dean's suffering would be rewarded, but Castiel saw no reason not to ease it along the way. It was not forbidden so long as he did not interfere with God's plan.

Perhaps it is why Castiel finds him before Michael. He can pick out Dean's soul from a sea of them, spots the particular glimmer that is Dean's cosmic fingerprint against the tormented masses before him. The demons hid him well, but not well enough. Dean has fallen and started to turn, but it is not too late; Michael must have him and, if necessary, will burn Hell down to get him.

Castiel and the others form a perimeter. They are six less, now, than before. Castiel forms the line and they hold it, beat back the hordes of sin-twisted souls while Michael collects his weapon. The demons surge, forming up and charging together instead of in a chaotic blitz attacks. His wings are smoking from the hellfire pelting them from above, from the demons biting and clawing below.

Two more of his brothers fall, and the line wavers. Michael is taking too long.

Castiel leaves his garrison while they can still hold ground; it's possible something got through, and while Michael can take care of himself, his focus should be on rescuing his vessel. When Castiel gets to him, Dean is alone with Michael, his injured soul still blindingly bright in the darkness, a brazen supernova of wrath and loathing and shame, armed with Alastair's blade.

Michael seems puzzled. He senses Castiel, and says, "He will not come."

Castiel doesn't ask why Michael does not simply take him; he can get consent later, but it would be simpler for them both if Dean accepts him now. He would not have to be awake to remember Hell, would not have to reconcile this horror while trying to reclaim his humanity.

Castiel watches as Michael tries again, a holy storm of golden wings, backing Dean further into his corner of damnation. Hellfire swirls in their wake and Castiel is in awe of Michael's brilliance, always has been, always will be.

Dean holds his ground, and lashes out.

He cannot hope to hurt the archangel, but he fights anyway, bites at the hand reaching for him. Castiel stands witness, knows his brothers and sisters need him but Michael has not dismissed him, so he waits. Watches Michael try again, watches the brimstone frizzle and snap under the power of Heaven, and watches Dean Winchester snarl and slash, utterly unmoved.

Castiel experiences something unfamiliar as he begins to understand; shock, he thinks, is what the emotional is called.

Dean does not want to leave.

"Perhaps we came too late." It's a statement, but there is anger beneath it. Castiel has heard it before, but not for an age; they are intoned like the last words Michael had spoken to Lucifer during the great war, before casting out the dragon and his ilk, banishing them eternally from Heaven. "I may have to take the other."

The other is not ideal. The other is merely an interim solution, half a lineage strong. He will not allow Michael to be at his full potential, and it puts the plan at risk.

Castiel hesitates, and it does not go unnoticed. He decides it's worth asking. "May I?"

Michael regards him a long time, while the inferno of the outer ring of the Seventh Circle rages around them. "Bring him to me," he tells Castiel.

It's a direct command, and Castiel knows this is where his path ends. He has no feeling about it one way or the other — either he succeeds, and Michael takes his prize, or he fails and will face Michael's judgement, joining those already lost in Oblivion.

Michael turns his attention back to the line. It was beginning to break, but surges out under Michael's fury. Hellbeasts and demonkind scream as he lays judgement upon them.

Castiel focuses on Dean, and watches. It's what he's done since the beginning, and he's learned many things about humanity since God let them loose from the Garden. Learned about the great insignificance of many of them, learned about the beautiful things they can build and the art they create. Learned about sacrifice and love and hate and betrayal in shades that are not absolute. A millennia of data seen and recorded, and yet when Castiel began watching Dean, he's learned more in twenty-nine orbits around the sun than he has since before time aligned with space in a dimension all its own.

Dean shys as he approaches and raises his weapon, but Castiel does not flare. Simply moves closer. Keeps watching. Waits until Dean shifts, the uncorrupted parts of his soul reflecting the dark light Castiel's wings emit. He does not corral Dean, merely coaxes. Does not demand, simply offers. Settles beside him, closer than Dean allowed Michael to wander.

Castiel unfurls slowly, and maybe it is because he's smaller, less intimidating, less bright and fierce, but Dean does not move away. He moves closer, almost entranced, and when Castiel reaches out, Dean does not flinch.

+

It takes him seven days.

When Castiel is done, he pauses to study his work. The finished product is still as cold as the surrounding earth, but Castiel can feel the infinitesimal particles stir as he coaxes them awake, feeds them his own energy until they begin to vibrate, expand, and gain mass. He knows this small part of himself will linger here, inside these molecules, for as long as they remain. Energy cannot be created except by God, only recycled and repurposed. Even when it has served its purpose, a sliver of his grace shall always remain. Castiel does not mind. He considers it an honor.

There is only one task left, and it is the most important. Castiel checks his work a final time, makes sure every cell, every fiber, every freckle is in place. The vessel is perfect, an epitome of strength and beauty, and he finds it is no mystery that its destiny lies with Michael. Castiel might be envious, if he knew the definition of the feeling. He caresses the contours of the face, traces the line of the brow, the bridge of the nose, the curve of lips, and cut of the jaw.

Castiel wonders if this is how their Father felt when he beheld his first creation and saw that is was good.

The soul waits, terrified yet patient, curled under one of Castiel's wings. It does not flinch when Castiel reaches for it, but shudders under his touch. It is still in pain, and Castiel has the impious urge to remedy that, to soothe away the scars and burns and guilt, but such things are beyond his skill to heal.

It slips back into its vessel with a whisper, and clings to Castiel when he starts to pull away.

Castiel waits, keeps his hand fitted to the mark on the vessel's shoulder, the manifestation of the brand Castiel’s grace left on this soul when he pulled it from perdition. Eventually, the soul settles, torn and aching but no less bright, merges back into its physical form as if it had never left.

When he lays hands upon the vessel, he replaces the cold with his warmth, lets the heat spread across skin and meat and bone, and feels the soul within shiver.

The location is quiet; the forest did not survive Castiel touching down in his true form, nor the animals that inhabited it. Even the wind does not dare infringe upon this place, the now-hallowed ground that marks the grave.

Castiel waits and watches, until the only sound is the quiet, steady beat of Dean's heart.

+

Michael is furious.

Castiel thinks it would rain fire and blood again on this day if God had not forbidden the return of plagues on the earth. He has not strictly forbidden them in the cosmos, and Castiel flinches as a star goes prematurely supernova in a benign galaxy nearby.

 _You were told to bring him to me_.

Castiel waits for the storm to pass. There is no use arguing his case. Heaven, as strange as it may be, operates much the same way any infrastructure of sentient creatures does, and perception holds more truth than facts. Castiel feels it would be unwise to point this out, and since he did raise Dean from perdition, Michael cannot expunge him. Not yet. There will be nothing stopping him once he takes his vessel.

 _He is mine_.

Castiel is unfamiliar with the emotional response he has to that, but shoves it aside because what he may or may not feel is immaterial. When Dean came to him, Castiel saw how deep Alastair's blade had cut, knew that they were running out of time. It may have mere hours later on earth when Castiel remade Dean as he was, but days had passed in Hell. Once Dean's soul had turned, it would have been too late. Castiel made an executive decision, and whether Michael liked it or not, it was the right one.

He understands why Michael is angry, even if he does not understand the emotion itself. Because Castiel raised Dean, Michael has no physical claim to his vessel. No easy way in. If Michael wants Dean now, he has to convince him — by logic or emotion or pain, it does not matter, but Dean must consent.

The thought of Dean having to endure more suffering makes Castiel feel something else entirely. Tired, perhaps, though he's unfamiliar with what _tired_ is beyond the concept.

Castiel's experience with Dean, before and during Hell, is why he's chosen once again. Watch over. Make contact. _Bring him to me_ , Michael says again, and Castiel does not misunderstand the masked threat there.

He expects Dean will be able to hear him when he calls, and goes quickly. But Castiel is wrong; Dean cannot perceive him any more, cannot make sense of his voice. He tries again, waits until Dean is alone but it only seems to hurt him, and that is the last thing Castiel intends.

He tries to warn the psychic, but she ignores his words. Castiel resigns himself to finding his own vessel. For all the time watching humanity, Castiel has never made contact and therefore never taken one before, but it's clear he must to complete his objective.

 _Find one that's strong_ , Uriel advises. _One that's so pious they won't question you_.

So Castiel does, because Uriel has taken many vessels and would know better than he. Jimmy Novak is a good man, at a glance. He has his vices, but nothing unforgivable. Nothing that a priest cannot dismiss in a routine confession (and Jimmy makes them, twice a week, once at Wednesday service and again on Sundays). He coaxes the man for seven days, eavesdropping on his dreams and whispering in the quiet twilight hours. A test of faith, a promise to protect, and the imparting of his mission's importance, and Jimmy says yes.

Castiel has been watching Dean Winchester so intently he has forgotten how trusting humanity is, overall.

There is no reason for Jimmy to fear Castiel, though, as Uriel's and Raphael's vessels learn to fear them and their like. He will not be reckless with this body, will treat it with care and return it when he is finished. If he dies and Jimmy dies with him, then Jimmy will take his place in Paradise.

Having a physical form is strange. Castiel extends his limbs, flexes his fingers and toes. Turns his head this way and that. Blinks his eyes, trying to adjust to the limited field of vision. He feels very small.

He ignores Dean's summons until he is ready, confident in his ability to control his vessel, to expand his diaphragm enough to speak using vocal chords. Jimmy is quiet as he rides along, but answers Castiel's questions about how to grip the handle of his blade using a human hand, about how to walk using feet. It's alien and slightly terrifying, but Castiel still has his wings, though he keeps them hidden, folded underneath hidden dimensions too small for humans to perceive.

Castiel removes the ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. He knows what it symbolizes, if not what it means. He takes it off, twisting it in front of his eyes, how they interpret the light drawn into it, how some reflect off the circle of gold and bounce away to be absorbed elsewhere. He tucks it away in a pocket and forgets about it.

When he sees Dean in the barn, Castiel learns Dean does not remember him. He must remember Hell, because Castiel can still see his vivisected soul beneath his skin, but he has no memory of who raised him.

Michael has been here, without Castiel or Dean's knowledge. He has ripped every shred of Castiel's existence from Dean that he could. Castiel wonders why — he cannot remove Castiel's mark from Dean's body and soul, only his memory, and if anything, it will only make Castiel's mission harder.

It does not occur to him that Michael is being jealous and vindictive. Such concepts are unfamiliar to him. Even if he understood the logic behind the emotion, he would not think it applies. Castiel has no claim to Dean; he belongs to Michael. Has always, long before he existed and will always, long after he's served his purpose. It's his part in the prophecy. Everything must go according to plan.

Except that Dean chose Castiel.

Dean attacks, but Castiel is ready for it. He came here under the assumption that Dean would remember him, and made no effort to hide what he is. Dean reacts the same way he did to Michael, force for force. He stabs Castiel in the chest.

When that fails, he doesn't run. Most humans would. Most humans would have run from the start. He's scared, but is in control of his fear. Castiel is, unwillingly, deeply impressed.

He tells Dean, "I am the one that gripped you tight and raised you from perdition."

It's the simple truth, and Castiel knows nothing else. He learns about lying along the way.

+

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title from Led Zepplin's _Phyiscal Graffiti_ song by the same name, lyrics from John Newman's _Love Me Again_
> 
> You can find me [here](http://jadstiel.tumblr.com/) and [here](https://twitter.com/jadstiel) and also sometimes [here](http://jad.livejournal.com/).


	2. Chapter 2

**when god gives you sinners**

* * *

  


i.

  


_Your brother, bless his soul, is summoning me as I speak. Make a deal, bring you back. It's exactly what I was talking about, isn't it? It's all become so... expected. You have to believe me. When I suggested you take on the Mark of Cain, I didn't know this was going to happen. Not really. I mean, I might not have told you the entire truth._

_But I never lied. I never lied, Dean. That's important. It's fundamental._

_There is one story about Cain that I might have... forgotten to tell you. Apparently, he, too, was willing to accept death, rather than becoming the killer the Mark wanted him to be. So he took his own life with the Blade. He died. Except, as rumor has it, the Mark never quite let go. You can understand why I never spoke of this. Why set hearts aflutter at mere speculation?_

_It wasn't until you summoned me... No, it wasn't truly until you left that cheeseburger uneaten... that I began to let myself believe._

_Maybe miracles do come true._

_Listen to me, Dean Winchester, what you're feeling right now — it's not death. It's life — a new kind of life._

_Open your eyes, Dean. See what I see. Feel what I feel. And let's go take a howl at that moon._

+

The darkness is endless.

Worse than that, it's freezing in here — wherever _here_ is. But where isn’t especially important. Nor is when, or how or why. The dark itself isn't worrisome, and neither are the details. 

The cold, though…it _burns_. A consciousness stirs, shivering.

Vibrations move through the air; invisible molecules expand rapidly, spin and ripple outward. They wash over the still form on the bed, colliding with the force of a tsunami.

The consciousness abruptly wakes and focuses.

The universe counts out several cosmic beats before the energy in the air takes shape and becomes a voice; the sound is familiar, but the words are layered over one another, fractured and nonsensical — save for one. Eyes open, searching. The air beside the bed is a heavy miasma of brimstone and fire. 

It smells like home.

Vision is painful at first, a kaleidoscope of oversaturated blurs. When the colors sharpen, the voice and the entity that produced it are gone. Only its scent remains, and the deep ache of wanting.

The room is sparse, only bare essentials in furniture, but the walls behind and to the right contain an impressive assortment of weaponry. They glow against the drab color of the wall, echoes of bloodstains shining on the blades and ghostly smoke leaking from the barrels of the firearms. It's a wall of magnificent death, and yet not one of them is more formidable than the ancient blade in hand, crossed almost tenderly across cold flesh.

Overwhelmed from sensory input, eyes close again. Fingers tighten, unbidden, on the handle of bone encased in soft lambskin. The cold drains what little energy remains, freezing this…vessel in place. It spreads from core to appendage, branching out from chest to arms and legs, elbows and knees, fingertips and toes. Ice trickles along empty veins and pulses like blood, but there is no heartbeat. Only darkness and silence inside, and a flicker of consciousness.

There's a distant ache on a limb, but it's dull. The nerves are sluggish. There's not enough energy in this body to get the message there and back again with any clarity.

Outside the room, more vibrations fill the air. They become louder as they draw closer. Two sets of sounds, one heavy and steady and slow, the thunder of matter against matter. The second softer, weaker — yet somehow louder; the anemic flutter of broken wings.

The room floods with a voice again, different than the first, just as alien and familiar. It's speaking to someone, but not any recognizable tongue — save for that one beat of a word, uttered by the bodiless voice from before.

 _Dean_ , it says.

This time it's a question. 

_Yes_ , something answers. It does not come in the form of sound waves like the others, but electrical impulses from deep within the vessel, itching as they try to connect, sluggish and erratic, misfiring and fading into white noise.

 _What is Dean?_ the consciousness wonders.

 _A name_ , a glimmer of energy supplies. It sounds a long way off. Hard to make out. The vessel is not empty. Something else is in here. It does not fight back, merely suggests: _Our name_.

This is puzzling. _I do not have a name_.

The pulse of thought seems much louder than before, flashing like lightning in a storm. _Then who are you?_

 _I am you._ A pause. _You are me_.

 _Yes_ , it agrees, _and our name is Dean_.

+

The door is shut, but the sounds are close. He is weak. Not defenseless, but too disoriented to risk a fight. He puts the knife aside and pulls himself to his feet; his movements are jerky at first, joints stiff and cracking. He manages to stand just as the door opens and admits light like a supernova.

Blinding pain lances behind his eyes. His surroundings swirl. He stumbles, overcome with vertigo. When his vision clears and the world rights itself, he finds himself somewhere else. 

It's dark and the air is ripe with the pungent scent of incoming rain. Heavy black clouds roil overhead, suffused with pink lines of energy. The thunder crashes in time with the lightning, filling the sky with noise. A blast of wind shoves itself down the empty driveway, creating tiny tornadoes of leaves and refuse. They die as quickly as they spring to life, over and over again, an endlessly shifting constellation of debris.

He looks up and blinks, eyelashes catching stray droplets of water falling from the sky. He can see past the clouds to the sky beyond, past the light pollution and the bend of the atmosphere. The spiral arm of the galaxy reaches across the sky like a pillar of light and he stares, mesmerized. Beyond this collection of stars lie hundreds of millions of others, too many to count much less comprehend. 

The pain in his head is intense. He closes his eyes and when he opens them again, sees only clouds. 

He's distracted by another scent on the air, hiding beneath the smell of the storm. Thick and

sweet, he inhales until his vision swims; it's close, and the deep, freezing all-over ache hurts just a little bit less. 

He follows the gravel driveway towards it. A long row of warehouses line his left side, an empty lot and an abandoned gas station on his right. Cannibalized cars sit decomposing in the corner, bleeding rust. The ground is overgrown with weeds and optimistic wildflowers, as if nature is trying to reclaim the space between the buildings. 

His right hand tightens on nothing, and the mark on his arm burns. It's the only warmth in the world. 

A shadow shifts on his left, hidden in the slim gap between two buildings. He doesn't make the conscious decision to move, doesn't even experience the thought; there's a high-pitched yelp, a whine that cuts through him and suddenly warmth covers him to his elbows, thick and wet. The dog's body lies broken at his feet, the acrid odor of its insides poisoning the air.

The silvery light of its soul twist as the darkness claims it, pulls it down into a pool of fire and ash. He feels, momentarily, a little better. Lighter. The mark on his arm warms, and the energy at his fingertips diffuses. He raises his face to the sky as it starts to rain in earnest. It's not as warm as the blood, but the lightning is so bright it sets the sky on fire.

Bile rises in his throat without warning and he doubles over, shaking and hacking. There's nothing in his stomach to reject, but he heaves anyway, throat burning and eyes streaming. He rests his forehead against the corrugated wall next to the alley, lets the cool metal take the edge off, lets the rain wash away the smell of death. 

There's more blood on him — his vessel, old wounds he's only now becoming aware of. He fingers the hole in his chest curiously and winces as the memory of pain, an unrelenting pressure, and the sound of bones being crushed, shattered, and shoved aside. The puncture is deep and wide, large enough he can easily fit two fingers into it. The flesh is colder than the air outside, sticky with coagulated blood and meat and shards of bone.

A car sprints past the end of the alley, vibrating with heavy bass to an unfamiliar beat. He moves toward it, turns, and finds himself walking down the middle of a road framed with parked cars. The street is empty, broken lamps shroud dark storefronts in a thick shadow.

One building is alive with light, glaring neon signs in the windows so colorful it stings and makes him squint. It's so cold out here. He clenches his fist again, but the heat from the last kill is already but a distant memory. The building beckons with its neon lights like cheap promises, but he pulls the door open and slips inside anyway.

The room is dimly lit and the air is saturated with the scent of departed souls. Dean blinks, letting his eyes adjust. The place is empty, aside from two men standing in front of the bar, heads bent in conversation. 

They glance at him and then each other, their faces as dark and grim as their surroundings. The strangers leave without a word, one dropping a handful of cash on the countertop. Dean doesn’t watch them go; he focuses on the woman behind the bar. Her face is bright and beautiful. She sees him looking, and smiles. Her eyes linger on his lips. "What’ll it be, stranger?"

Her soul glimmers in the low light, a bright spectral rainbow against the gloom. Dean moves towards it, hypnotized. His nostrils flare and his pupils dilate. 

When he doesn't answer, her eyes shift to his clothing, torn and filthy; to his hands and forearms, still sticky and brown. It's dark in here, but not that dark. 

She's framing a timid question when a low drawl from behind Dean interrupts: "He'll have a scotch. Make it two. Best you've got. Doubles, nice and neat."

The woman's eyes shift over his right shoulder. "You got it, sugar," she says. With one last questioning look at Dean, she throws a tattered towel over her shoulder and turns away.

"Smells like Heaven, doesn't she?" 

The man slips into the seat beside him. Dean sees a flicker of a human face before it shifts — a sly smile, snake-like, under turbulent red eyes. His voice is soft and deliberate, like the gentle breeze of promise preluding a hurricane. The very air around him is heavy; Dean inhales deeply and closes his eyes. He smells like _heat_ , like sulfur and ash and smoke. 

"And before you ask how I found you," the man continues, "that there's the sweetest mark for miles. You'd've found your way in here eventually." He pauses and smirks. "Not _entirely_ innocent, of course, but who is anymore? Even the children; you wouldn't believe what satisfies a PG rating these days." 

His vessel is plainer of face and older than Dean's own, but radiates an ancient power that draws Dean to him against his will. The man drums his fingers idly on the bartop and smiles to himself before continuing: "It doesn't get easier. Resisting that impulse, I mean. The urge never truly goes away. It's like hosting an AA meeting with an open bar. I honestly didn't expect you to last this long; I thought I'd walk into a bloodbath. I even wore my Wellies." He indicates the boots on his feet, thin red rubber coming up to his knees.

The woman returns with their drinks and the man passes her a bill. Dean knows without looking it is many times more than he owes. "Keep the change." 

She pauses long enough to shoot another wary look at Dean, but she's lost her allure. He remembers that voice even if he does not remember the vessel. He remembers his _scent_. The creature that smells of home. "You know what this is."

The man takes a sip of his drink and grimaces. "This is a bloody tragedy, that's what this is. I think I shall dedicate a new level of Hell to the proprietors of thirty-dollars-a-bottle scotch." He takes another drink regardless, and sighs when Dean just waits for an answer. "Honestly, I'm a bit stumped. You're not what I expected. But then, I didn't really know what to expect. Cain was already one of us when he turned the blade on himself, but you… well. You never were one to do things the easy way. Always so truculent." The man's lips quirk as he swirls the amber liquid in his glass; he turns sideways in his seat and leans back. "What do you remember?"

Dean remembers cold. "Not much."

"Mm. Probably for the best." The man cocks his head, looking Dean over. "Do you know who you are?"

The stranger talks like they've known each other for years, but Dean only remembers his voice, a few isolated words. _Open your eyes, Dean_. "Let's start with who _you_ are, and what you want."

The man smiles, as if amused, but Dean can see the tumult of curiosity and hunger beneath it. "Name's Crowley. King of Hell. You won't remember any of this yet, but we go way back, you and I." The man — Crowley — pauses and peers at Dean critically. "Do you at least know your _name_?"

 _Our name is Dean_. "Yes."

Crowley waits a beat, head craned forward in anticipation, brows rising higher when Dean says nothing. "And?"

"And I'm still waiting for you to answer the rest of my question, asshole."

Dean is bemused when Crowley really does chuckle in reply. "And here I thought I'd never underestimate you. You're coming along a lot quicker than I anticipated." 

"Coming along to _what?_ "

The self-proclaimed King of Hell takes another drink before answering. "Look, it's not that easy to explain. And you're not exactly a textbook case. Can be a bit of a nasty shock. And trust me, the cleanup isn't worth it. Easier to work up to it. Feel it out, get your bearings, _then_ jump off your trolley. Anyway, don't worry about the details just now; you'll catch on quick enough. They always do."

"What are you talking about?"

"Your new brethren," Crowley says, explaining nothing. He hands Dean his untouched scotch before retrieving his own. "Brothers and sisters. Aunts and uncles. Cousins a thousand times removed. Millions of them, tortured souls all. Most of them are completely useless, tell you the truth, but when God gives you sinners, you — well," he says, clinking the edge of his glass against Dean's, "you make do."

He finishes off his drink with a quick flick of his wrist. Dean merely watches him; studies the curve of his lips, the flex of his jaw, the bob of his neck as he swallows. Follows his eyes as they crawl over Dean like he's up for sale, the line of a pink tongue darting over teeth. He watches the layers of red smoke roil beneath flushed skin, so hot the air around him shimmers like asphalt baking in the sun.

Crowley sees him looking and smiles again. This time it's more wicked than amused, a smokey shadow of sharp teeth under human lips. "You know," he drones, the edge of his voice tingling like sparks from a fire, "it's rude not to drink when someone makes a toast."

Dean raises the glass to his lips and hesitates. He isn't certain of much right now, but he's pretty sure his whiskey shouldn't be glowing. 

It's so bright it makes his eyes water, and slowly the small details come into focus. _Really_ small. There’s a tidal wave of photons bouncing their way through the amber liquid, the oily smudge from his fingertips, the microscopic chips in the glass. The individual molecules twist off the surface, destined to be sucked into the olfactory system and interpreted by the brain as _alcohol_.

The nausea returns with a vengeance, and by the time he's thought about finding a toilet he's already in a stall, kneeling over a porcelain bowl and hacking up nothing.

It's freezing on the floor, and the toilet he's resting his forehead against isn't doing him any favors. His jaw and head are throbbing, his throat is stripped raw, and his legs feel disconnected from the rest of his body. He wonders, briefly, what the hell is wrong with him, but then the door to the stall swings open of its own accord with a bang.

"I warned you it was a bit of a shock, didn't I?" 

When Dean glances up from his confab with the toilet, Crowley is standing in the doorway, holding out a hand. Dean takes it and allows himself to be pulled to his feet. There's no vertigo, just a weird sort of hollow feeling along his midsection. Crowley's grip is burning hot and it takes every ounce of self control he possesses to not lean into it. 

Dean grips the edge of the stall instead and blinks rapidly, trying to will the room to quit spinning. "What the fuck is happening to me?"

"Something extraordinary." Crowley steps aside to make room for him to pass, and smirks when Dean stumbles, but catches him by the arm. "Though remarkably uncomfortable, I imagine. It'd help if you'd sit still for two bloody seconds." He doubles his grip on Dean's arm, then moves his palm to Dean's forehead before Dean can argue or try to pull away. "And no wonder. There's a reason our kind prefer a living vessel."

"A living — "

Crowley shoves him against the wall with a flick of his wrist and continues talking as if he was never interrupted. "Our hosts tend to take things like breathing and kidney function for granted. Amazing, isn't it, how complex the human brain is and yet how utterly _stupid_ people are by contrast." 

When Crowley steps closer, the force holding Dean against the wall constricts. It doesn't hurt and isn't uncomfortable, but it's disconcerting because he can't move. Dean thinks about leaving, about being back at the bar — but this time nothing happens.

"Look, as amusing as it would be to watch you run about wreaking havoc while your skin sloughed off, you might be a bit miffed once you've come around. Besides," Crowley adds, and there's that smile again, the one that manages to be predatory and seductive all at once, "wasting a vessel like yours is a cardinal sin. I'd be impeached."

"Do you just like the sound of your own voice," Dean grinds out, "or are you having trouble finding the point?"

That earns him another smile, then Crowley makes a fist, and a blinding pain ripples across his core. There's no delay this time. The pain is on an atomic scale, literally ripping molecules apart and snapping them back together again. It lasts seconds, but the echos of the pain stretch to the horizon, and Dean knows he’s screaming even if he can’t hear the sound.

"Even with the power off, you're still too mouthy for your own good." Crowley puts his hands in his pockets and leans close. "Stop using your lungs to talk and start using them to _breathe_."

Dean doesn't know what he means and finally tries to fight the force holding him to the wall. But he's so cold, so drained, and still slightly sick — whereas Crowley is hotter than the sun, and the King smirks as he gives up. Dean tries to think, and finds it's difficult. He's been acting mostly on autopilot, doing things without processing what or why. He knows what breathing is, he's not an idiot, but Crowley is right — his vessel's diaphragm is motionless, and so is its heart.

"Got there, have you?" Crowley is watching him carefully, and Dean has the uneasy feeling that his thoughts — sluggish as they may be — are being monitored. "Stop trying so hard. That grey cantaloupe in your skull knows what to do."

Dean closes his eyes, but it doesn't help. This body is a prison of cold neurons and coagulated veins and decaying muscle. Crowley isn't making any sense, he doesn't — 

The pressure on him intensifies. Dean opens his eyes, but the heat and the room around him are gone, replaced by a cold, wet, _crushing_ darkness. The pressure is intense — so overbearing it's painful, even to this dead vessel. The gravity he took for granted is gone; he's encased in a pitch-black, briny liquid. He flails experimentally. He might as well be trying to move while encased in concrete.

He closes his eyes and opens them again. It makes no difference. His chest is tight and exploding all at once. The feeling is unpleasant, like an insistent itch just out of reach.

 _Panic_ , his hindbrain supplies.

He's disoriented and cold. Saltwater is crushing him, condenses what air is in his lungs to nothingness, he _can't breathe_ — 

The pressure disappears and gravity takes hold once more. Dean collapses, soaked to the bone, eyes stinging as he hacks water all over the tiled floor. The violent cough eventually subsides, and Dean takes a deep breath.

Oh.

Air rushes over the inside of his lungs, flooding his stagnant system with oxygen. Without a beating heart, there's nowhere for the oxygen to go — and, as if on cue, the muscle in his chest contracts. It's broken, but it splutters to life anyway, painful with each beat as it works itself back into sinus rhythm. Like a row of dominos, bodily functions start up one after another, overwhelming and relieving all at once.

He's warmer now, thanks to the steady — if erratic — heartbeat. Heat crawls across his chest, up his neck and into his limbs, and an uncomfortable prickling sensation follows it. He sits back on his heels, wincing.

Crowley's leaning against the wall, smirking. "Thinking was never your forté. You're much better at improv."

Dean would retort, but the restored blood flow has caused another problem; he's bleeding, and rather profusely. The dizziness is getting worse. "I don't suppose you have a trick for this?"

He's enveloped in blinding heat once more. He hates that he craves it. The bleeding stops as his body repairs itself; he can feel the individual cells duplicate to stitch the flesh back together, the itch of scabs forming and just as quickly smoothing into fresh skin. He's disappointed with how quickly it's over.

"Don't say I never did you any favors." The heat dissipates as quickly as it arrived; it leaves Dean lukewarm and dripping on the cold floor. "Strictly speaking, we leave the healing to the halos."

As blood begins to perfuse the tiny blood vessels in his brain, his vision blurs. He's aware that Crowley is moving, but he can't focus on him. The room tilts. Neurons start firing, and with them come flashes of emotion and memory. 

Anxiety. Pain. Hate. Responsibility. Fear. Love. 

Crowley. Mary. Metatron. John. Castiel. _Sam_.

Dean clutches his head. Everything hurts and the flood keeps coming, even as Crowley hauls him to his feet. " _Sonofabitch_." He hits the edge of the sink and scrambles to hold on. He tries to focus, to shove the onslaught away.

The mirror above the sink is fogged over with heat, rivulets of water cutting crooked paths down its length. He can see the broken image of Crowley over his own shoulder, a smiling red shadow.

"Don't go Jason Bourne on me now," Crowley says as he comes into focus. "You were doing so well. Look at me." 

Dean _is_ looking at him, but Crowley moves right behind him and takes Dean's chin in hand, so Dean can't look away. His grip is gentle, cautious, yet it feels like he's taken Dean by the throat. His skin burns underneath Crowley’s fingertips, and the rest of Dean's body shivers, jealous of the contact. 

When Crowley speaks, his voice saturates the entire room, echoes off forever and floods Dean's sinuses until he chokes on it. " _Look_."

Dean looks again, and stares. A serpentine inferno stares back. A long tail curls around them both, framed by immense wings of vermillion smoke. It's not nearly as bad as his own reflection: dark smoke writhes behind black eyes, his features warping in agony. Or euphoria. Perhaps a little of both.

Dean forces himself to breathe and blinks. He abruptly realizes what Crowley has been trying to tell him, has had to _show him_ to make him believe it.

The mark on his arm flares with sudden pain, like a toothache, radiating to his core. 

Dean jerks his chin away. Crowley lets him, and becomes humanoid once more as he steps back. Dean stumbles to keep his balance and clutches the cold edge of the sink, staring in the mirror. His face stares back, but flickers. He already knows the answer, but has to ask.

"What the hell have you done to me?"

"Me?" The King of Hell says, mouth curving under eyes like fire. "No, darling. You did this to yourself."

+


	3. Chapter 3

**with what remains**

* * *

  


ii.

  


Dean's body is gone. Sam curses, but knows it's his own damn fault. As well-protected as the bunker is, he _did_ just attempt to summon Crowley. And now — 

"Sam?" Castiel looks like a dead angel walking, but that's nothing unusual. He leans against the doorjamb and squints at the empty bed, then at Sam. "Where is — "

"Crowley," Sam bites out, stepping into the room. It reeks of sulfur. "I'm gonna kill him." 

"Why would..." Cas doesn't finish as realization no doubt dawns. Sam glances back at him; the angel looks ill. 

Sam can relate. He sighs. "I don't think I want to know."

"I will find him," Cas announces. He turns around and there's the sound of wings, but he doesn't disappear. Instead he stumbles, crashing into a stand in the hallway and sending the talisman on it flying across the floor. Sam almost doesn't catch him in time, and gets a face full of feathers for his trouble.

"Yeah, okay," Sam grunts. "Right after a nap and a sandwich."

Cas makes an aborted attempt to stand on his own, wings fluttering for balance. Sam almost drops him in surprise; after five years of watching angels flit in and out of their lives, he's never seen more than a glance or a shadow. 

Even threadbare and broken, the wings still manage to send every scrap of paper in the vicinity flying and blow Sam's hair all over the place. Hell, he'd be impressed if he wasn't so worried. 

Castiel’s wingspan is twice his height, all heather-grey mottled feathers Sam knows are not his own. He's never seen them himself, but Dean had, down in Purgatory. It's one of the few details about that year his brother voluntarily disclosed: Castiel's wings were black.

Cas is as stubborn as always. "I don't need — "

"I want to find him just as much as you do. But you're not in any shape to help anybody, not right now. "

"I'm fine," Cas insists, even as his wings flop and his weight drops against Sam. "I have to — "

"Tell you what, when you can stand up without help, then you can argue with me."

Cas doesn't struggle when Sam half-carries him into the room, arm hanging over Sam's shoulder and wings dragging limply against the floor and walls. He's heavier than he looks — maybe it's the wings — but Sam manages to dump him face-first onto Dean's recently vacated bed. He should really change the sheets, but Castiel doesn't seem to care. 

He only notices the leather-bound handle, half-under the bed, because a long feather jostles it across the stone floor. Sam picks up the blade, half expecting it to disappear, but no, it's really there. Why didn't Crowley take it? He grips the handle and tucks it into his waistband. It's heavier than any bone has a right to be.

Cas grunts, shoves his face into a pillow and inhales. His back arches and the room is filled with blinding light; Sam shields his eyes, and by the time he's blinking away the glare, the wings are gone, and Castiel is — snoring.

Great. He's a man down and has a broken angel to boot. Not for the first time, Sam feels a tangible ache when he thinks of Bobby. Kevin. Charlie. Ellen and Jo. Ash. His father. Pamela. Even that asshole Gabriel. Just about everyone who could help is either dead or gone, or worse. 

His thoughts venture into just _what_ Crowley would want with — Sam shudders and runs his hand through his hair. 

Well, there is _one_ other person. Sam stares at the number entered into his phone for ten minutes before pressing the button. It only rings once, and the call goes through before he has the chance to change his mind.

"Heya Sam," Jody says. "What kinda trouble you in this time?"

 _You have no idea_. "Hey, Jody," he says. It's good to hear her voice, but he can't bring himself to smile. "I've got kind of a weird request."

"Par for the course with you two. What can I do?"

Sam winces. He doesn't have the heart to tell her. Not yet. "I need you to put out a nation-wide APB."

+

 _I've left you a little gift in the bar. I'll wait outside_.  

With that, Crowley left him in the bathroom to contemplate this new twist.

Dean's... confused. He's himself, he thinks. He doesn't feel all that different, aside from the whole living-dead thing. Once he got his body breathing, it all came flooding back, one Apocalypse after another. He's still sorting through it, but he doesn't think anything is missing. He isn't sure how he'd know. He isn't sure why it matters.

Then again, Sam thought he was himself when his soul was still playing bitch to Lucifer and Michael.

Sam. Damn, that kid must be out of his mind right about now. Dean has the fleeting impulse to go back, to assure Sam that hey, sure, he might be dead, but that doesn't mean he's _dead_. They've been down this road before. But the more he thinks about it, the less appealing the idea is. Sure, Sam'll be freaking out, but...

Dean just doesn't _care_.

Huh. 

He glances at himself in the mirror. He's... well, a bloody mess. Literally. He strips off the jacket and the two shirts underneath. Something small and heavy lands against his chest as he flings the rags away, right against where the hole in his chest had been. He fingers it curiously — his old pendant. Sam must have saved it from the trash, what, five years ago? Typical sentimental Sam. 

He forgets about it almost instantly as he catches his reflection again. The cap of his shoulder still bears the faded brand from Castiel pulling him out of Hell. The light, almost-translucent scar was easy to miss these days unless you knew where to look, but now it stands out, bright and silvery in his vision. It balances the new mark on his opposite forearm, angry and raised and red, pulsing in time with his heartbeat. He feels naked, and it has nothing to do with the lack of clothes.

Leaving the tattered shirts on the bathroom floor, he finds a clean t-shirt in the stack of boxes in the hallway. It displays the bar's logo on the front and it's tight, but it'll do. He's not so cold anymore.

The bar is no longer deserted. The place is loud and packed, but the only souls in the room are the woman behind the bar and some poor bastard trying to play himself at pool. The rest of the faces are twisted and dark. They fall silent and stare at him as he steps into the room. He surveys them quickly, and realizes that he recognizes them. Every single one. Not the vessels, but the shadowy smoke beneath, the twisted creatures their true forms take. He'd seen all of them, many more than once, over the longest forty years of his life.

Well, Crowley did say he'd left him a gift.

+

" _— police are looking for information on this man, wanted for questioning about a string of disturbances in the midwest. The public is advised that the man should be considered armed and dangerous and should not be approached. If you have any information, please call the hotline number on your screen._ _In other news, a small town in Indiana is reeling from the brutal beating that left a homeless man dead. According to witnesses, the murder was committed by a group of a dozen or more transients, many of whom are still unidentif—_ "

Sam closes the laptop lid with a snap. Jody was less than happy to grant his request, especially when he declined to give details on why he wanted a national all-points bulletin issued on his brother. _Is Dean in trouble?_ Yeah, Sam thinks bitterly, Dean's in trouble. Dean is always in fucking trouble, even when he's _dead_.

Sam doesn't try to summon Crowley again. There's no point. And Sam isn't sure he can trust himself not to kill the bastard the moment he sets eyes on him. He might need him later. He might be the only one who can fix this.

A part of him knows he needs to grieve, that if he's going to be of any use he needs to get that out of his system. Bottling that shit up never did anyone any good, and anyway, that's more Dean's way of dealing with things. 

_Was_ Dean's way. It doesn't even hurt to think it — more of a resigned sort of realization. Sam sighs, and scrubs a hand over his face. It's weird, but maybe their lives have left him so jaded he shot right past grief, skipped over anger, and stumbled right into a benumbed haze.

He checks on Cas and, finding him comatose, wanders into the kitchen and sits at the table with an open beer. His eyes wander over a few discarded candy wrappers on the table, and he wonders when Dean was last in here. He's usually good about cleaning up after himself, treats the bunker more like a home than a base of operations, always keeping the sink clear and leaving the trash for Sam to take out on his morning runs. Sam supposes he'll have to remember to do that on his own, from now on.

He can't believe he's been so stupid. So _blind_. Crowley has been after Dean from day one, and somehow... Sam just never put it together until now? He's an idiot, apparently. All the signs were there. When Crowley lured them in with the Colt that first time, or came to them with the promise of the Pestilence and Dean had listened, and went with him to capture Brady; he practically led Dean right to Cain's door — 

Sam curses. Sure, demons are always keen to get their hands on angelic vessels, but if Crowley just wanted to poke sticks into Dean's brain, he'd already had plenty of opportunities. No, he _knew_. Somehow that son of a bitch _knew_ this would happen. What he wants with what remains — _nothing good_ , Sam knows. 

"Are you going to drink that?"

Sam blinks. Cas is leaning in the doorway. He's cleaned up, hair still damp. There are dark circles below his eyes, which are looking at the floor. He's wearing jeans a little too long for him, and — Sam's throat tightens — one of Dean's old Clash t-shirts.

Sam glances at his beer. It's grown tepid.

"There's cold ones in the fridge."

Cas joins him at the table, a fresh beer in hand. His steps are slow and deliberate, as if he's making sure he can hold his own weight. It's strange seeing him act so human again. He eyes the blade, sitting lengthwise between them. "Odd," he remarks, "that Crowley would leave that behind."

"Yeah, tell me about it," Sam says, drinking his warm beer anyway. "How're you holding up?"

"I'm fine." Sam isn't buying it; Cas catches his look and sighs. "I'm tired, but fine."

The beer is flat as well as warm, and leaves his throat feeling sticky. Sam considers getting another, but can't be bothered to get up just yet. "So, uh, I don't want to pry, but," he picks up one of the candy wrappers on the table and fidgets with it, "what's with the wings, dude?"

"Are you referring to the fact that I have them again, or the fact that they're corporeal?"

"Um," Sam says, tossing the wrapper towards the trash. He misses by about a foot. "Both?"

Cas gives his version of a sigh, which is just an miniscule uptick of his shoulders and a slight tilt of his head. "It seems when Metatron was captured and removed from power, we regained some of our abilities. As for the manifestation, I apologize," Cas shifts in his seat, and turns his bottle between his fingers. "We were hurt in the fall, our wings most of all. It's difficult to heal them while simultaneously keeping them concealed."

"You don't need to apologize, man. It's not like I minded, it was just. Surprising," Sam admits. "I mean, that makes sense, it probably takes a lot to uh, tuck 'em into another dimension or whatever." He flicks another candy wrapper at the trash. This time it goes in. "So does that mean you can — " he waves his hand while he flounders for the right word, because _fly_ isn't really appropriate, and settles for one of Dean's, " — zap around again?"

"Yes. For now," Cas adds. "I don't think it's wise to waste much energy into healing these, and my ability to 'zap' is limited, but I can manage if I must." He takes a long pull of his beer, throat flexing as he swallows. "I will be fine," he says, when he catches Sam's eyes again. "At least long enough to find Dean."

"Uh-huh. And how much longer is that grace going to last you?"

"Depends on how much I use it." Cas continues to drink his beer and makes a face, but swallows it anyway. "So if you could avoid any life-threatening injuries for the time being, I'd appreciate it."

"I'll do my best, but I'm thinking we need to round up a demon to figure out what Crowley's up to."

"That should not prove difficult."

"And we should see about rounding up an angel, too, to see if — "

"Dean's soul isn't in Heaven," Cas interrupts.

"How do you — "

"I checked, after Metatron told me what he had done. It's why I'm so," he pauses to grimace, "tired."

Sam lets it slide. "You're sure?"

"Yes."

"Then where..." Sam doesn't finish. _No_.

"He carries the mark," Cas says. He even sounds exhausted. "Accepted it willingly. However good his intentions were — "

"Yeah, I get it," Sam says through his teeth. Cas sighs and takes another sip of his beer. "Is that why... " He can't say the words _his body_ out loud, not yet. "If Dean's in Hell, maybe Crowley — "

The sudden look of horror on Cas's face stops him mid-thought. Cas drops the beer and stands quickly, albeit unsteadily, palms pushing off the table and sending his chair screeching back across the floor. The half-full beer topples over and rolls of the table with a heavy _clink_ , fizzy amber liquid following it over the edge. "I have to go."

"What?" Sam stands with him, and if he has to grab onto the angel and hitch a ride to wherever, he will. "Why? What is it?"

"I have to go back to Heaven," Castiel says, shrugging Sam's hand off. He points at the weapon on the table. "You must hide that. I'll be back soon."

"What're you — _Cas!_ What are you talking about? And wouldn't it be safer in Heaven?"

Cas looks terrified at the suggestion. " _No_. But you must keep it safe from whatever comes for it, at whatever cost. Do you understand me?"

"No," Sam snaps, but Castiel is already gone.

+

"He's been in there a while."

Crowley smiles to himself. She's still young. Nervous. _Twitchy_. He wonders idly if Dean will go through that phase. No, probably not. If there's one thing Dean Winchester is not, it's insecure. 

Not anymore, anyway.

"We should go," she continues. Crowley's quickly growing bored with her unease. "Sir, even for you, this is mental. He isn't like us. You know what he's capable of. If he remembers anything, he'll — " She stops abruptly and swallows.  

"Perhaps," Crowley agrees. It's a risk he's willing to take.

Lightning strikes, sending out a hot pulse of magenta light. The thunder is so close on its heels that they overlap.

"Even if you're right," she continues, glancing at the sky, "why would he help you? Why not just kill us?"

"Little thing I learned from the clergy, love. Gotta get 'em while they're young."

There's a loud crash from inside the bar, followed by the sounds of breaking glass and splintering wood. The windows glow blindingly bright, bathing the street in pink light. The sky is a spiderweb of electricity, thunder playing out a cosmic bass that grows louder with every pass. Someone inside screams, followed by a chorus, one beautiful sound of terror overlapping another. Underlying the screams are the organic sounds of rent flesh and broken bones, throats choking on blood. It's over in a matter of moments, followed by an eerie silence aside from the storm.

The door flies open, slamming against its hinges in the wind. The woman who had been tending bar runs out, tripping over herself, unsure of what direction she wants to go except _anywhere but here_. She's covered in blood, but it isn't her own. Her wide eyes find Crowley and his companion, but she doesn't stop to chat. She's down the street as fast as her feet will take her. Crowley watches her go curiously. Interesting.

His companion gasps. When Crowley turns back, Dean is standing in the doorway, watching them both. He's wearing another shirt, which was probably white before he accepted Crowley's peace offering with open claws. Or, in this case, a fire ax.

"I see you enjoyed my little homecoming gift," Crowley says, resting his weight against the car parked at the curb.

Dean moves towards them, and pulls what appears to be the shredded remains of viscera off his upper arm, discarding it on the sidewalk. He looks at the woman beside Crowley, then at the King himself. "Who's the chick?"

"Don't recognize her?" This is good. If Dean was intent on killing him, he would've come out swinging. "She was your first project, back in the pit."

Dean turns his gaze back to Bela, his eyes shifting to their true color. Crowley's never seen anything more beautiful in his entire life — and he's seen the still-beating hearts of infants. 

Bela backs up until she hits the hood of the car and looks at Crowley for assistance. Crowley ignores her. "No one short of Lucifer himself has ever managed to twist a soul so quickly. It was magnificent to watch. Your mentor was right about that much: you're a rare talent. An artist, really — when you're not bellyaching about the morality of the situation."

Dean blinks, and his eyes are human again. He's still looking at Bela like she's a curiosity rather than a target. So far, so good. He may be homicidal, but with _purpose_. 

"Your original meatsuit was hotter," Dean tells her matter-of-factly.

It's so absurd and so _him_ that Crowley can't help but chuckle. 

Bela raises an eyebrow. "Go fuck yourself, Winchester."

"Considering my alternatives, gladly." He shifts his gaze back to Crowley. "So what is this, a bribe? You let me kill a few lackeys and bring me a whore," he continues, pointedly ignoring Bela's indignant snort, "and for what? What do you _want_?"

"Want?" Crowley scoffs. "Why do I need to want something? I can be nice."

"No, you can be a conniving little snake and pain in my ass, but you’re never nice."

"Words hurt, Dean."

If only looks could kill. "Not nearly as much as I do."

"Touché. Tell you what," Crowley decides to change gears, "why don't you go explore for a while? Feel yourself out, then we'll talk. Take a little demonic honeymoon. See the sights, wrong some rights. It's a Brave New World."

"And what's in it for you?"

"No need to be hostile. We're friends, remember? I scratch your back, you don't stick a knife in mine. Speaking of knives...you might want to start by collecting that pig-sticker before your brother chucks it back into the Pacific. Trust me, not a fun place to go on holiday, even for a demon." Dean's eyes refocus at the mention of the blade. One track mind, this one. "Be sure to tell Moose I said hello."

Dean smiles, but it's more to himself than for them. He redoubles his grip on the ax and is gone without another word. The distant trill of sirens blows in with the wind that gathers up the storm to follow him. Time to go.

Bela catches the set of keys he tosses her with one hand. "Keep an eye on him."

+

The bunker is bright and silent.

The halls are empty as he stalks through them. He goes straight for his room, but balks at the door. The lingering scent is overpowering; it's familiar and horrible, like he stuck his nose into a bucket of bleach and inhaled, sharp and bright and too damn _clean_.

The blade is gone, but it's not far; he can feel it. This place is full of tiny rooms and hideaways, some he's sure he hasn't even seen yet, but he'll burn the place down if that's what it takes.

There's another scent nearby. A soul. Something about it is off — it's damaged, singed in a way that makes him simultaneously attracted and repulsed by it. 

_Sam_.

He pulls the bloody shirt over his head and tosses it into a corner, and blindly selects another from the drawers across from the bed. He's going to need a larger go-bag at this rate. He switches his weapon into his left hand and heads out into the hall. The fastest way to find the blade would be to ask for it, but Sam last saw him dead; he won't just take Dean at his word, and it isn't as if Dean can just walk through a devil's trap anymore. 

It doesn't take long to find him, following the scent of his soul through the halls. Sam doesn't even look up as he walks in, doesn't notice the quick, demonic slight-of-hand. He's hunched over a book, but his eyes aren't moving along the page. His soul still shines bright, despite the fact that it shudders irregularly, and still bears the scars from his time in the cage.

Dean leans his weapon against the wall out of sight, clears his throat, and waits for it.

First comes the stunned silence. Then the chair scraping along the floor as Sam jumps to his feet, mouth working and no words making their way out, until finally — " _Dean?_ "

Dean smiles. It's easy, he finds, playing this part. Muscle memory. "Yeah, I know, this re-run's getting old."

And there it is, immediately, the doubt; Sam stops halfway to him, that muscle in his jaw flexing as he realizes something is wrong, that Dean can't actually be here. Dean has about two seconds before Sam'll have a knife on him. "How?"

"Can we get this out of the way first?" He pulls a silver knife off the table. Sam eyes it, and then Dean, as he pulls the blade across his forearm. It doesn't even sting. 

Sam's eyes shift to the counter. Dean follows his gaze and resists the urge to smile. "Right," he says. He sprinkles the contents over his skin, little white grains sticking in the hair on his forearm. Sam visibly relaxes, because he can't tell the difference between salt and the sugar Dean switched it with. "It's just me."

He's anticipating the embrace and wonders if he's trying too hard, but if Sam notices anything, he doesn't show it. "The hell, man," Sam says into his shoulder. Dean smirks briefly at the irony. "We can't keep doing this. I was losing my damn mind."

Sam finally pulls away and holds him at arm's length. He's staring at Dean like he still can't believe it, and Dean is trying here, really trying, but this new transformation hasn't done anything for his patience. "But your body — "

"Look, Sam," Dean says, pulling away. "Whatever it is, it can't be good, right? So first things first — where is it?"

Sam looks confused, then immediately alarmed. "Are you kidding? No, Dean, that's what got us into this in the first place — "

"And for all we know, it's why I'm still alive." Well, it's true. Technically. "And if it's something else, and that something comes back — "

"Absolutely not. I don't care, Dean, we'll deal with it. That thing is bad news. Even Cas — " Sam stops abruptly. He blinks at Dean, and just like that, the doubt is back. Sam takes a closer look at his clothes, the blood caked on his arms. He's backing up, slowly, and with purpose — but he can't fool Dean, who sees the path of his footsteps, trailing backward to the brass devil's trap ingrained into the floor.

Dean really doesn't have time for this. Looks like he'll have to do this the hard way. 

Sam grunts a curse as a gentle flick of Dean's wrist sends him flying against the wall. Sam recovers quickly, but he doesn't try to move, just stares at him with wide eyes, like he still can't believe it. Dean smiles and lets his eyes shift. "Sorry, Sammy. I really need that knife."

Sam doesn't get the chance to react before the air in the room shudders, expands, and then suddenly contracts. Dean winces and reaches back his weapon in one movement, but it's too late to leave even if he wants to. He's already surrounded by blinding light and the overpowering scent of ozone. Even poor Sam, still pinned to the wall, looks genuinely surprised to see twelve angels appear in the room with them.

"What the fuck," Sam says, and Dean agrees. They're all wings-out and in full armor, and even burned and broken from the fall, it's an impressive sight. Hannah is carrying a goddamned _broadsword_.

"Dean Winchester," she says. Her eyes are already glowing. The heat in the room is _intense_. "By the power vested in me from Heaven, you have been sentenced to die."

"Little late for that," Dean remarks. 

The first poor bastard to move gets decapitated. It won't kill him, but it'll slow him down. Looks like they were smart enough not to bring an angel blade, but there's dozens littered around the bunker — and once he gets the blade, he won't need anything else.

The wings of the headless angel twitch violently and fade as its grace leaks out, and Dean watches it disappear into the air vents, off to find another poor vessel. Dean tightens his grip on his weapon and waits, but nobody else looks like they want to step up next.

"Stop this."

With all the energy in the room, Dean doesn't even notice him until he speaks. He looks over his shoulder and there's Cas, leaning on the doorframe for support. Dean has the vivid, tangible memory of blue light brighter than the sun, all-encompassing, hotter than that of even Hell and larger than life. Fierce empathy smothered the pain, grasping him out of the pit while Hell raged on below. The brand on his bicep warms, spreading down his arm and across his chest.

Cas looks nothing like he did then; what little grace he has left flickers like a dying incandescent bulb. He's ragged and without armor, doesn't even have his wings out, but Dean can see their shadow, broken and molting, hanging heavy over his shoulders.

When he sees Dean's face, Cas looks like he's going to be sick. 

Dean smiles. "Heya, Cas."

"Castiel, leave this place," Hannah orders. "You cannot save him this time. You should have killed him when you had the chance."

Cas ignores her, using a hand to brace himself upright. He's still looking at Dean like he can't quite believe it, but doesn't come any closer. 

"She's right." Dean really can't afford to be distracted here, but it's strange. He's Cas but he's _not_ , just the hollow shell of Jimmy Novak that he's always wearing, broken web of a stolen grace pathetic against his brethren. Dean is surprised he can stand, much less speak. "And even if you could — "

The other angels take advantage of his distraction, and Dean barely dodges in time. Hannah recoils from his counter, wings snapping at his face as she leaps back, two more soldiers taking her place. One of the unfortunate bastards gets an ax to the face.

He lets go of his hold on Sam and forgets about Cas. Say what one would about the assholes, but angels are _quick_ , and they hit like fucking trucks. Dean rolls out of the fray, narrowly avoiding one of the traps etched into the floor. The kitchen is a hurricane of wings and celestial fury. He retreats into the adjacent hallway, forcing them into a bottleneck. Broken wings don't seem to have much effect on their ability to move fast when they need to — before he can reach the junction, two of them cut him off.

The mark on his arm warms and he's moving, but he feels disconnected from it. Whatever his body is doing, he's not actively involved, moving on autopilot. Auto- _annihilate_. Two more empty vessels drop at his feet in as many seconds, and he's not even out of breath yet.

He stops trying to analyze it. Thinking about it only seems to slow him down. He moves as the mark wills it. Slashing, slamming, stabbing. Every blow directed at him is dealt back in force. It feels like he's accelerating through a gale; the faster he moves, the more resistance he encounters, but he's not slowing down. 

Hot pink energy flashes arc off the walls. It surrounds him like a web, shocking and burning everything that gets too close. He has no idea where he's going but the mark does, guides him through the holy armada trying to stop him. Each body he drops is replaced with another, and Dean has to wonder if they have the poor bastards lined up outside the place, worthy vessels awaiting their turn for murder.

It doesn't make any difference. He'll go through each and everyone one of them. He's got nothing but time.

The fight ends just as abruptly as it began. Dean finds himself alone, standing amid a pile of broken, bleeding vessels. Feather and flesh and bone decorate the concrete walls and floors. Dean is distantly aware that his vessel is bleeding, the pain more like a memory than a feeling. 

He stops by his room to retrieve the angel blade displayed on the wall. It's not his weapon of choice, but it'll get the job done.

His brother and their broken angel aren't in sight when he re-emerges, but Dean isn't really looking for them. He finds what's left of the angels in the garage; five remain, the rest still out looking for vessels or given up. Hannah still has her original suit, but she's missing an eye and looks worse for the wear. She raises the sword in her hands as he approaches, but doesn't move. 

He would have found it eventually, but the fact that all of them have the car surrounded may as well have  painted a bulls-eye on it.

Dean twirls the silver blade in his hand. "I can do this all night, sweetheart."

Hannah sees it, but holds her ground. Well, okay then.

He ducks the first angel to attack, catches the wrist of the second in one hand and slaps the other over the angel's forehead. There's no scream, just a rush of pleasure down the length of his arm, a flash of pink, and an empty, charred vessel hits the floor. He stares at his own hand. "Awesome."

The next blow finds home, slamming Dean up against the wall with enough force to crack it. He shakes it off, throws the blade and shields his eyes as it finds it's mark. If her brothers and sisters dropping like flies bothers her, Hannah doesn't show it. She charges him with her sword held high, the remaining two others flanking her. 

It's over in seconds, but it feels longer. He's certainly feeling the pain, now; his vessel is a bloody mess, a collection of bruises and lacerations, cracked ribs, and a dislocated shoulder. He winces as he pops the arm back into its socket. 

How the damn car makes it through unscathed, he has no idea. Then again, it survived everything else, including the end of the world. 

_It didn't survive Croatoan_ , a memory supplies. 

True. Then again, neither did he.

Hannah fought hard. She was the first in and the last down. He places a foot on her chestplate and pulls the blade out of her ribs. Whatever lights had been on in the room are broken and busted from the encounter, but Dean can see just fine. He prefers the dark; the colors aren't as bright.

He's just starting to jimmy open the trunk when he feels it. The room _flickers_ ; there's no other word for it. He doesn't stop, because whatever else is coming won't be a problem once he gets what he came for. He's squatting at the back bumper, the bloody angel blade jammed underneath the trunk latch, fingers twisting the lock pick in the keyhole when he hears the incantation.

" _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas_ — "

Dean sighs and stands, retrieving his weapon. "Really, Sam?"

" — _omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, et secta diabolica_ — "

The words roll off him without effect. Dean has no idea what an exorcism would feel like, but _boring_ definitely hadn't been on the list. He just looks at Sam standing at the door, and raises his eyebrows. But Sam isn't taking the hint.

" _Ergo draco maledicte et sectio, ergo draco maledicte et legio secta diabolica_ — "

He doesn't stop when Dean walks towards him. Doesn't even back up. Dean would be impressed, but he can't be bothered. 

" _Ut Ecclésiam tuam secúra tibi fácias servire libertáte, te rogámus_ ," Sam pursues. He looks worried at Dean's composure, but presses on: " _Audi nos_."

"More like _audi nope_ ," Dean supplies when nothing happens. Sam does back up when Dean reaches for him, but he only goes for his pocket, fingers closing around the keys he knows are there. He smiles and lets his eyes glaze over. "Looks like you can't exorcise a demon wearing his own skin."

Dean leaves him there with his look of horror and goes back to the trunk, taking care to pop the lid without getting stuck in the trap etched on the inside. He strikes it out with the blade, just to be safe. Inside atop the false floor is a long, iron cursebox engraved with ancient runes. That'll be tricky, but he doesn't have to figure it out here. 

He closes the trunk just as he feels the rush of wind behind him. Arms that are stronger than they should be wrap around his shoulders. The heat against his back burns like bleach against bare skin. 

"We really going to do this, Cas?" he asks without turning around. It can only be him; he killed everyone else. Busted grace or not, he's not sure he can unlock the grip Cas has on him without killing him. Which, really, he'd prefer not to do — it's _Cas_ , c'mon — but he will if he has to.

He's kind of surprised at how easy it is to come to that conclusion.

"You're not giving me a choice, Dean." So Cas can tell, even if Sam couldn't. "I can't let you take the blade."

"Sure you can." He punctuates the remark with a quick slash, angel blade cutting a shallow slice in Cas' thigh. Cas flinches, but doesn't let go. "Or I can add you to the pile of dead idealists over there, and _then_ take it. It's up to you."

"Dean?" Sam keeps his distance, but circles around the Impala, still poised to fight if he has to. Like he'd stand a fucking chance. "But you're — "

"Dead? Yeah, well, like I said," he attempts to shrug, and Cas tightens his grip. "Been there, done that. Little demonic twist this time. Could be worse."

" _How_ could it be worse? Dean, you're — look, we can fix this, okay? You just need to — "

"Fix it?" Dean actually laughs. "Why the fuck would I want that?"

This time, Cas does let him go when he shoves the blade in as deep as possible, right up until it hits his femur. Dean has him in a chokehold before he can fall, and finds himself trapped in a circle of holy fire. As if he didn't see _that_ coming.

He brings the blade under Cas' throat. He doesn't even hesitate.

"How long are we gonna do this dance?" Dean presses the blade against skin, hard enough to make Cas wince. "If you think I won't — "

"I know you will," Sam says. He sounds like he believes it, too. "Just — you gotta listen to me, Dean. You're not yourself — "

"No shit, Sherlock."

" — but you're still _you_ ," Sam finishes. "And you wouldn't want this. You'd rather be dead."

Dean considers that. He can remember wanting to die, so many times — but the reasons are hazy. There's a void there, back when Sam had left for Stanford and left him alone with John, when Sam died for the first time, when he had lept into the cage with Michael. This entire past year, when he realized Sam hadn't looked for him in Purgatory, when he thought Cas was gone for good. When Sam wouldn't fucking talk to him. 

The anger is familiar, but the heaviness beneath it is alien to him. He scratches at it, curious.

The mark on his arm pulses a reminder. Dean shrugs, and Cas tilts his chin up as the blade scrapes against his jugular. "Maybe. Maybe not. Tell you the truth, I haven't felt this good in years, Sammy."

"Dean — "

"Either you break it," he interrupts, words coasting along the line of Cas' neck. The angel shudders, and Dean smiles. "Or he does. Your choice."

Sam hesitates, but Dean waits, because Sam isn't an idiot and it doesn't take him long to come to the same conclusion. There isn't really a choice; he lets Dean out, or Dean kills Cas and then kills him. Either way, Dean gets what he wants.

The moment the flames go out, Dean lets go of Cas, and Sam goes to catch him. Dean throws him against the nearest pillar with a thought. His outflung arm strikes the stone at a bad angle and something inside _snaps_. Sam crumples and doesn't get up — not until Dean is over him has him by throat, and drags him back up. Every slight, every betrayal rushes to the surface and Dean uses it, lets his fist translate his fury.  

Warm droplets of blood spatter against his face. It reminds him of the early spring rains in Kansas, preludes to the thunderstorms that would hail the coming tornados. There's one raging inside him now, decades of memory running on a loop. Changing diapers because Sam wouldn't stop wailing, no idea where the hell Dad was. Whispering how to work out an algebra formula under the covers late at night because Sam wanted to learn and John thought it was a waste of time. Explaining how to properly use a goddamn condom before Sam went off to prom, because _someone_ had to.

Things that used to mean something, but Dean can't quite place. He tries to remember what it all meant, why he even bothered. Why he tried to _hard_.

He tries to remember a time before Sam. 

"Dean," Sam says. Blood leaks out of his mouth. One eye is swollen shut, and there's a nasty split through the eyebrow above it. Dean's surprised he's still conscious. "Dean, please."

There's an emptiness, there, beneath the memories, deep and cold. It doesn't hurt, doesn't feel like anything — just empty space, where something used to be, and Dean is giving himself a headache trying to remember.

Dean lowers his fist. He loosens his grip, and Sam sinks slowly back down to the floor.

Something grabs at his ankle as he stalks back to the car and he pulls away instinctively. Cas hangs on. "Don't do this," he says, and sounds remarkably calm for somebody with one wing in the grave. "Let us help you."

Dean kicks until the angel lets go, and steps over his prone form to get to the door of the car. Cas flickers like a bulb in a haunted room, grace barely keeping him breathing. He isn't a threat, not anymore. Whatever strength he has is gone.

"You wanna help me?" he says, slipping into the driver's seat and turning the key in the ignition. He glances at Sam, breathing hard and bloody against the pillar, and Cas on the floor, putting pressure on the wound in his leg. "Don't hunt me." It's not a threat so much as a promise. Dean grins and slips the gear into reverse. "Or I _will_ kill you both."

Bela’s leaning against a motorcycle when he wheels the Impala out of the tunnel. At first glance, he can tell it's a Triumph, but he doesn't recognize the model. "About fucking time. I was about to call in the cavalry."

"I can take care of myself, bitch." He does remember her, more from life than Hell, but it's like it's from another lifetime. He recalls enough to remember she was a cunt. "What are you, my damned babysitter?"

"Something like that." She doesn't elaborate, or acknowledge the pun. He isn't sure which annoys him more. "You look like you lost a fight with a meat grinder."

"Holy housewarming party. You should've come, you would've had fun."

She sees the veiled threat and scowls. "Do you have it?"

"Would I be out here without it?" He knows every word he says will be passed back to the asshole holding her leash, but it doesn't matter. He jerks his thumb back towards the trunk, and pops it when she goes to look.

"Aww, they gift-wrapped it for you." She closes the trunk and goes back to the bike, mounting it. "Lucky for you, I know a bloke. Unless you have somewhere else to be?" 

He puts the car back into gear. "Anywhere but here."

+


	4. Chapter 4

**nowhere fast**

* * *

  


iii.

  


The sun is blazing directly in Dean's eyes from over the horizon, a swirling molten orb of fire, when he finally turns off the road. He followed Bela on her bike in a south-east diagonal on Hwy 135 for the better part of two hours before she took an abrupt left at Wichita, and started leading them down the long straight of Route 400 to nowhere fast. It's not that he has any place to be, but the leftovers from the bar and the bunker caked against his skin are starting to get disgusting, and the eight-minute-old photons from space are shooting through his pupils like quantum-sized ice picks. 

It only takes Bela a couple of seconds to realize he's turned off. He hears the bike engine roar as she wheels it around, the single halogen headlight bobbing in his rearview as he pulls into what serves as the parking lot for the _Silver Bell Motel_. There's not a bell in sight — just a short, derelict line of rooms with a dusty parking spot in front of each door, dyed grey by the early light of dawn. The office is the first room on the left, a little paper _vacancy_ sign hanging in the window. He doubts the sign has ever been flipped over.

By the time he's exchanged cash for keys from the half-blind old man behind the desk, Bela's parked her bike at the side of the building. She eyes the place in disgust. "Would it kill you Neanderthals to get a five-star hotel once in a while?"

He rolls his eyes but otherwise ignores her, lets her haunt his heels to the room on the end where he'd parked the Impala. The car is dusty on the outside and sticky on the inside. He should probably clean that up, but he can't bring himself to care.

The room smells stale and has little in the way of colors that aren't some shade of brown. It's kind of a relief, and he feels the pulsating headache subside a little. He wonders if the colors of the world will always be this bright; the room, at least, has thick curtains pulled over the double windows and keep out most of the light. He drops the car keys on the dresser and strips off what remains of his clothes as he heads towards the tiny bathroom. 

The mirror reveals a constellation of bruising that's actually kind of impressive. He has a few third-degree burns on his forearms, a deep slash along his lower back, and another gash on his left thigh. The bruising is worst over his left side, dark purple and blue blooming over his ribs. The bleeding, at least, has stopped on its own. His hair is matted with things he couldn't begin to identify.

When he steps into the shower, he turns the water up as high as it can go. It isn't nearly hot enough. 

There isn't any shampoo, but there's one of those tiny, complimentary bars of cheap soap on the sink. He pulls off the paper and lathers it between his palm and his hair, watches the water run brown and pink down his chest and abdomen. The pendant glints in the low light, lying against the faint scar left by Metatron's strike. 

Before the shower starts to turn cold, the water is running clear and the smell of decaying flesh is gone. There's a small, rough towel folded over the rack on the wall, and Dean uses it to to ruffle his hair.

The blast of cool air from the main room makes him shiver, and only now does he consider he didn't plan ahead with clothes. As if on cue, the door swings open again and Bela appears silhouetted against the sunlight, several shopping bags dangling from one hand, his car keys in the other. He takes a moment to study her vessel; late-twenties, early thirties. Brunette, short hair, big blue eyes. She's pretty, but not stunning. Slim, but not skinny. The kind of girl he'd have taken for a night and forgotten in the morning, once upon a time.

She looks him up and down, taking in his damp hair, injuries, and nudity in one quick glance. "Feel better?"

He does, and nods. She gives him another once over, eyes lingering on his hips before snapping back up to his face. "I had to borrow your car." She raises the bags in explanation.

Dean really doesn't give a shit. She looks at him a moment longer before dropping the keys on the bedside table and upending the contents of the bags on the double bed. "I forgot my first time up, too," she goes on, and Dean isn't sure if it's the silence or just him making her so uneasy. "Dirty work, being a demon. Hard to go from one gig to the next when you've got insides on your outside. I got a couple of spares, too, for the next time."

There's jeans and t-shirts, socks and underwear, a couple of leather jackets and a pair of boots. Shit you could get at any army surplus. He ignores the briefs and grabs a pair of jeans.

"Hold on, hotshot, you're a bloody mess." She indicates the broken ribs, the festering wound in his leg.

He shrugs. "Does it matter?"

"If you want full range of motion the next time you get a holy regiment dropped on your head." She reaches out, then stops, eyes meeting his. "Don't bite, all right? It's going to hurt."

 _As much as Hell?_ He doesn't need ask, because they both know the answer. It does hurt, but he doesn't flinch as she lays her hands over his ribs, biting her lip in concentration. Her eyes goes black, and her palm warms. He can feel the bones clicking back into place, the bruise melting away. She goes to his shoulder next, his arms, then his lower back, before kneeling down to address the deep cut on his thigh. 

It's nothing like when Cas does it. The angel healed instantly, never any pain. "Gotta wonder why so many of you are walking around with holes if it's that easy."

"Not worth the effort. Most of us would just move on to another meatsuit," she admits, glancing up at him. "But most of us aren't..."

"Riding their own skin?" Yeah, Dean supposes, it has its benefits. Mainly being immune to exorcism. This really isn't a downside, considering the perk. "You done down there?"

She raises her eyebrows, glances at his dick before looking back up and grinning. "Unless you'd like me to bob your knob while I'm down here." 

Dean rolls his eyes, grabbing for the jeans again. "I'll pass."

"I think you're missing the whole point, here," she says, standing as he pulls them on. "You know, to have some _fun_ for once in your life." He raises an eyebrow at 'life' and she rolls her eyes. "Right, I forgot; you never learned the meaning of the word."

"Guess you'll have to educate me."

"Gladly." She picks out a shirt seemingly at random and hands it over. "I had to guess your size." She looks him over as he pulls it on and nods. "Close enough. You look human again, anyway."

He lets his eyes shift, looks at himself in the mirror across from the bed. His face is the same, but it flickers like a black flame, twisted and laughing — or screaming, or maybe both, it's hard to tell. The mark of Cain is dark against his skin, raised and angry. "Do I?"

"Enough to fool anyone you need to." Bela comes up behind him, helps shrug him into one of the jackets. It's more her style than anything he'd have chosen when he was human, but it works. "If you're done making yourself pretty, we've still got a long drive."

Dean sets about the socks and boots, double-knotting the laces with quick, practiced movements. "Where exactly are we going?"

"Arkansas."

"I hear it's lovely there this time of year."

"Good to see you're still a smartass." Despite her tough talk, Dean notices she's keeping her distance again. It reminds him of Crowley, that urge to simultaneously be close and as far away as possible. Whatever she remembers of him in Hell still scares her. "Old acquaintance of mine owes me a favor."

"Old," he repeats thoughtfully, standing and grabbing the keys off the table, "as in, from when you were human?"

She pauses at the door, hand on the knob. "Does it matter?"

It might. She tenses when he comes up behind her. "What do you remember?"

She can't open the door without backing into him. "A little," she admits. "Flashes. I wasn't down there that long, not compared to most. Crowley pulled me out early."

 _To keep an eye on you_ goes unsaid, but Dean gets it. Crowley got someone that knew him, someone _he_ knew. Someone he'd torn into more pieces than he could count, over and over again. Maybe so he wouldn't be tempted to do it again.

 _Don't count on it_ , a sly voice in his head supplies.

She breathes out when he backs up so she can open the door. The sun outside is blinding, bouncing off the hood of the car. His head aches again, pain pulsing sharply behind his eyes. He squints and sees Bela head towards her bike. He catches her elbow, jerks his head at the Impala. "Get in."

She hesitates, but only for a second before climbing into the passenger seat. She switches on the cassette player when he starts the engine. Whatever else may have changed, the AC/DC coming through the speakers is soothing.

_One hot angel, one cool devil..._

"So," Bela begins as he reverses into the road. Dean really hopes she doesn't plan to talk the whole time, or she might end up making the trip in the trunk. "What do _you_ remember?"

_...mind's on the fantasy, livin' on the ecstasy..._

Dean shifts into drive and spins the wheel. "Everything."

+

When Castiel wakes, he abruptly wishes he hadn't.

"Ow," he says to nothing in particular. There's a noise of a chair scraping against the floor, and then large hands helping him into a sitting position. "That was thoroughly unpleasant. How long was I — "

Sam glances at his watch. The left side of his face is still a little swollen, and there's a healthy bruise under his eye. His bottom lip boasts a split just below it. He looks as if he's had a week to heal. "Half a day, give or take a couple of hours. Don't move too much. Your body lost a lot of blood, and you — "

"I'm — "

"If you say 'fine', I swear to God I will knock you out again."

Castiel frowns, but doesn't finish. "I am not going to die this instant," he says instead, and Sam seems satisfied with that. He takes a better look at Sam — Dean had nearly killed him, if memory serves, but Sam looks no worse than he did the previous morning. "You look well."

"Yeah, I feel okay," Sam says, shrugging. "I — "

"Your arm was broken."

Sam looks at Castiel critically. "I thought you — that's why you're so — when I woke up, you were passed out next to me, dude. You're saying you didn't — "

Castiel tries to shake his head, but his neck is stiff and his head feels heavy. "I did not."

"You must've," Sam says. "Look, you were pretty out of it, right from the get-go. Maybe you blasted yourself so hard you don't remember. Are you sure you're okay? No offense, but you look like a reanimated corpse."

"Why would you precede an offensive remark with 'no offense'?" Castiel squeezes the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger, hoping to pinch the pain away. Perhaps he did heal Sam, but if he had and could not remember, he is worse off than he realized. He does not have a lot of time. He's frankly surprised he woke at all. "Did Dean — "

"Yeah." Sam looks worried, but he always looks worried. And this time, Castiel knows, he isn't nearly as worried as he should be. "I've been keeping an eye out for signs, but it's been quiet. Whatever he's doing, he's not setting off any flags that I can see."

This isn't necessarily good news. Dean knows how to cover his tracks. Castiel says as much.

Sam grits his teeth together, causing the muscle in his jaw to flex, then sighs. "Do you really think he cares enough to bother, right now?"

No, probably not. "He'll at least want a head start. He knows we'll go after him. And so will whatever remains of Heaven's host."

Sam pushes a mug full of cool water into his hands. Castiel still can't make sense of the taste, but with such a severe lack of grace, the substance seems to help all the same. He takes a sip mostly to make Sam relax. "Speaking of heavenly hosts," Sam says, sitting back down in the chair in front the couch. "What the _fuck_ was that all about?"

Castiel sighs. Sam isn't stupid, and has likely put two and two together — that it isn't just any demon in his brother's body, but that his brother _is_ the demon. There has only been one incident of a demon inhabiting its original host, and he's the one responsible for this in the first place. Cain just knew to keep his head down, or Michael would have come for him centuries ago.

"I know Dean's going to be a problem," Sam goes on when Castiel doesn't answer right away. "A _big_ problem, okay? I'm not an idiot. But, the top of Heaven's Most Wanted? Even Michael didn't put that much effort into getting Dean when he needed him for a vessel."

"Because Dean wasn't a threat," Castiel admits. "An annoyance, perhaps. A means to an end. Dean was going to say yes, otherwise Michael would have come for him in the end, if we had kept him imprisoned."

"So having the mark of Cain doesn't make him a threat, but being a demon is?"

"Having the mark of Cain, the First Blade, _and_ being a demon is," Castiel corrects. "And a demon in his own skin. Dean cannot be exorcised, and because of you, he knows it." When Sam opens his mouth to no doubt defend his actions, Castiel shakes his head. The pain in his head jostles around and makes him wince. "He would have figured it out eventually. Aside from that, he's like any other demon — susceptible to devil's traps, salt, holy water, the rest of it. But much more powerful than the hellspawn you are accustomed to."

Sam frowns at the implication that his brother has been reduced to _hellspawn_. "And once he gets the blade?"

Castiel isn't actually sure. "I assume they will still be effective, but with that weapon, he will be a much more formidable enemy. Imagine if Abaddon had the weapon, and the power Cain bestowed upon Dean to use it." 

Sam must imagine it, judging by his expression. "You're saying that because of the mark, he's...become a Knight of Hell?"

"I'm saying it's a possibility." Castiel pauses to frown. "It may not even be possible to kill him, if that's true."

"Nobody is killing anybody," Sam says decisively. "And look, he can't just crack it open. That box has some of most powerful warding on it I've ever seen. That's why I — " Sam stops, sighs again. "It'll take some major juice to get into it."

Castiel does not doubt that, but Dean has some serious 'juice' of his own now, is just as resourceful, and likely has all the power in Hell at his disposal. "Ideally, we will need to get to him before he finds a way. He does not need to eat or sleep, and it will be his first priority."

"Yeah, I figured. And look — I know it's useless telling you to stay put, because you'd just try to zap yourself somewhere and make things worse. So," Sam pauses to sigh, then pulls a dufflebag off the floor and dumps it in Cas' lap. "You can come, but we're doing this my way, okay?"

"I could find him faster on my own — "

"And he'd kick your ass," Sam says. "Again. And then finish the job." Castiel closes his mouth, because Sam is probably correct, although Castiel does stand a better chance than he does. "So let's skip the ten minute argument about it and spend it getting on the road, okay?"

"Sam," Castiel says, and reaches out. 

He catches Sam's wrist as he begins to stand; he doesn't touch Sam often, and he knows he should do it more. It's the way humans show affection and he's begun to see the appeal, if the way Dean's touches — few and far between as they may be — leave him feeling disconnected from everything else aside from _Dean_ are any indication. And he does care about Sam, and Sam is family — _his_ family, this weird brotherhood he's been adopted into. "This isn't going to be as simple as just finding him. Dean will not come quietly. There won't be any convincing him, no reasoning with him. Even if he remembers us, he isn't human any more. He doesn't have any concept of empathy, compassion, guilt...or grief. There is nothing to hold him back from killing you. He will not hesitate."

"He's still my brother," Sam says, like that will make any difference. "Whatever else he may be."

"Your brother was already the most effective killer on the planet," Castiel points out, "and now he has the ultimate weapon, the power and will to wield it, and all of damnation on his side."

"Well, when you put it like that," Sam says, and rolls his eyes. "Must be Tuesday."

+

By the time Dean pulls off the highway exit for Little Rock, the itch on his arm is unbearable. The blade's just in the trunk, but for all it matters it may as well be back at the bottom of the Pacific. Bela tried to carry a conversation for a while, but shut up when they crossed over from Missouri when Dean asked her, in no uncertain terms, if she'd like to spend the rest of the trip chained to the rear bumper.

He wants to _kill_ something. He remembers the feeling, the hot pulse of need the moment he first laid hands on the blade. The release of shoving it into Abaddon, like some kind of murderous fucking orgasm. The perpetual nausea when he had it and fought the urge to use it. The full-body toothache when Sam took it away. 

The Impala's lights illuminate a mostly deserted waterfront through downtown. Dean ignores the stoplights with a desperate sort of hope that some poor bastard pulls them over. It'll be the last mistake they ever make.

They've reached the outskirts of the city when Bela says, "Main and Broadway," and he takes the turn, headlights flashing across brick industrial buildings and warehouses lined with street meters. The sun followed them all day, and has finally dipped below the horizon behind them. Dean flips the sun visor up, grateful for the twilight. There's an empty gravel lot next the nondescript building Bela directs him to with few other cars scattered around, but most of them look like they've been there a while. He pulls the Impala behind an old Dodge pickup that mostly hides it from view of the street. He feels uneasy leaving it there, with its precious cargo in the trunk, and tries to calculate how quickly Sam will track him; he counted every traffic cam they passed, and decides it should be fine. He didn't leave Cas in any state to zap anywhere soon, and it will take Sam hours to catch up. 

He grabs a can of spray paint out of the trunk and throws up a few Enochian wards along the brick wall of the building just in case Heaven has any more stupid ideas. On a second thought, he sprays one on the trunk lid as well, red paint bleeding down the shiny black coat. Bela waits impatiently, arms crossed over her chest and muttering something about paranoia. 

Dean replaces the can, and pulls out his .45, Ruby's old knife, and an angel blade. He tosses the latter to Bela. She catches it swiftly and raises an eyebrow, but tucks it inside her jacket without comment.

The knife feels all wrong in his grip. He tucks the gun into his waistband at his back and shrugs his jacket over it. Bela's already walking towards the metal door slotted into the side of the building.

It's three stories tall and is made, like every other structure in this place, of old brick. The windows are boarded up tight, painted black, and Dean can feel more than hear the erratic pulse of noise inside. When Bela knocks on the door, it's a few minutes before the eye slot slides open. The pair of eyes on the other side glow, that misty mother-of-pearl flash that reveals a shapeshifter on camera. 

He doesn't open the door, just looks at them both before focusing back on Bela. "You're in a cement room with no doors or windows, and all you have to get out is a mirror and a piece of wood."

"Look at the mirror to see what you saw, take the saw and cut the wood in half," Bela says without hesitation. "Two halves make a whole."

It takes Dean a minute to put that together, and by the time he's got it, the door's already open. He follows her inside, past the shifter still holding the door. They follow a long, dark hallway that opens up into a larger room full of soft, orange light, and something that sounds like an old school jazz playing from speakers bolted to the walls. There's an open mezzanine level looking down the main floor, broken up by large concrete pillars supporting the structure. Booths and tables are built into it, all offering a little privacy of their own. There's a horseshoe-shaped bar in the center beneath the hole in the second level and it's the least crowded place in the room. Dean follows Bela towards it, and can feel eyes on them both as they cross the room. The murmur of conversation breaks here and there as they're no doubt made for what they are. Dean's already identified a group of vamps, several djinn, a pair of kitsune and what he's pretty sure is an okami lurking on the upper level. She's eyeing Bela with some interest.

The body tending bar isn't human, either; Dean isn't sure, but based on the otherwise human appearance, he's got his money on ghoul. "What're ya havin’?"

"I'm here to see Keung," Bela says simply. 

"Don't know no Keung," the ghoul replies, and Dean's sure now, can smell the death coming off her breath with every word. 

Bela rolls her eyes before leaning over the bar, letting her eyes shift. "Tell Mr. Universe that Bela Talbot is here to see him, and it's the most important thing he's doing today."

Mr. Universe or Keung or whateverthefuck his name is turns out to be human after all, and the only one Dean's seen in here so far. Though, considering the clientele, a human would not last long in here left unattended. The man is short and bespectacled, has thick, long hair whisked into a bun and he's wearing an ostentatious silver Mandarin-style suit. 

"Bela bloody Talbot," he says, and his English accent is thick despite his Asian heritage. Bela allows him to kiss one cheek, then the other. As he leans forward, Dean can see the flash of a talisman hanging from his neck and clenches the knife in his hand. Of all the bottom feeders in the room, of course they're here to see the fucking _witch_. 

Keung doesn't notice Dean's distaste; he holds Bela at arm's length and looks her over before releasing her. "You made it out of the pit rather quick."

"Well, you can thank him for that," she says, and Keung follows her gaze to Dean. The man regards him calmly, but has good instincts; he doesn't come any closer. "And that's actually why we're here."

"Anything for you, my darling, as always." He's still watching Dean, like Dean might decide to attack at any moment. It's definitely a possibility. "What can I do?"

Bela grins. "I don't suppose you have anything human around the place?"

+

"Sam, what the hell is going on?"

 _Hell is going on_ , Sam thinks, and lays into the accelerator while swinging around a car cruising in the left lane doing the speed limit. Dean takes special pleasure in harassing those kind of thoughtless jackasses whenever they're not in a rush, tailgating to the point it unnerves even Sam, until the person gets the hint and switches into the right lane.

"Why do I have troopers all over the midwest hunting for your brother?" Jody asks when he doesn't answer. "People are starting to ask questions."

"It's a long story," Sam says, eyes scanning the other cars on the highway. It's rush hour but at least the traffic is moving, though he keeps an eye out for cops just in case. Dean refuses to install a stereo with Bluetooth capability in any of the cars, including Cas' piece-of-shit Continental, and Cas won't let anyone except Dean touch his stupid car. "I don't really have time to explain. I think he's heading east, so have them keep an eye out for him as long as you can, okay?"

"Dammit, Sam, I can't just — "

"I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important." Sam winces at the sound of his voice; he doesn't mean to snap, but the asshole ahead of him keeps tapping his brakes even though he has at least six car lengths of room, and Sam is boxed in and can't get around him. Sam wonders how long he can get away with using the shoulder as an improvised HOV lane. "Did you get any hits on the Impala?"

There's a long sigh on the other end of the line. "Actually, yes. I called in a favor. One of the kids here knows a guy in ATS, and we got a couple of hits of him running lights in downtown Little Rock."

Little Rock? "Arkansas?" Sam sees a hole open up in the pack of traffic; a lifetime of driving the Impala around makes it easy to swing this metal tunaboat into it and pull ahead. Granted, they'd be moving faster in the Impala, as even with Dean's tune up the Continental’s V8 barely chugs out two hundred horses. He's mostly thinking about that when he blurts, "What the fuck is he doing in Arkansas?"

Cas shifts in the passenger seat, blinking away sleep as Jody answers, "I was hoping you'd be able to tell me."

"I'll let you know when I figure it out," Sam lies, and he's going to have to tell her eventually, but not while dodging rush hour traffic. "You got an address for me?"

+

It turns out Keung did not have any humans 'lying around' and neither did anyone else (the vamps apparently had their dinner already), but if there's one thing this planet has in abundance, it's humans. A short trip out and the vamps bring another back, under the premise that whenever the demons are done with it, they get it back.

The man is shaking the entire time Dean leads him out to the car, pops the hood, and points wordlessly to the box. Human or not, Bela's witch friend isn't able to move it any more than the rest of them because Sam isn't an idiot — the entire thing is crafted out of cold iron coated in salt. Just standing too close to it makes Dean's skin itch. The random pedestrian struggles with the weight, but manages to lift the box and take it inside, and deposits it onto a table in one of the backrooms Keung led them too. 

Dean gives the guy a wink and cheery wave as the vamps come to collect him, and closes the door on his screams.

"Just once I'd like you to bring me something simple," Keung mutters as he paces around the table. He's holding a hand over the box, about a foot above the lid. Dean is involuntarily impressed, because that has to fucking sting. Keung glances up at Bela, standing opposite with her arms crossed. "Where in God's name did you even find this?"

Bela's eyes slide black at the word _God_ , but Dean knows it's more for effect than any real offence. "Don't worry about where we got it. I just need it opened."

Keung is studying the intricate rune on the lid and says, "Dare I ask what's inside?"

"Does it matter?"

Keung levels a look at her over his glasses. "You remember Pandora's dilemma, surely."

"Not that old," Bela reminds him. "And we're on a clock."

"Aren't you always," Keung mutters, but returns his attention to the task at hand.

Dean just watches, ignoring Bela's suggestion that he may as well go have a drink because this could take a while. Dean isn't thirsty or tired but he is impatient, arms folded over his chest as he paces by the door. His entire world has narrowed down to a point, is focused the magnetic field of epic proportions radiating from the blade, pulling him into a tighter and tighter orbit.

Bela makes herself useful by pulling books or boxes or jars full of strange off the shelves as Keung requests them. He's tracing a complicated sigil around the box on the table in chalk, and Dean watches and memorizes, taking special note of the symbols he's not seen before. 

"Rosewater," the witch says when he finishes his circle. He takes it from Bela without looking away, and upends the contents on the box. The box starts to hiss, steam rising off it like it's scorching hot. This must be progress, because he smiles. "There's some some Reyka below the bar. Bring it."

"What the hell is vodka — " Bela begins, but shuts up and rolls her eyes when Dean turns his gaze to her. Whatever this asshole is doing seems to be working, and while Dean has developed sixteen different ways to kill him since they arrived, he's willing to wait until he has what he wants. What he _needs_. "Whatever, just try to keep it in your pants until I get back, all right?"

A pattern is emerging in the spellwork, and Dean's not so much curious as he is just following it to keep himself busy, because it's been almost an hour and the box is still closed. Rosewater. Burdock. Myrrh. Sandalwood. Anise. And the Reyka Bela went to fetch — Dean's not familiar with the brand, but recognizes the label as something off the top shelf. The runes on the lockbox are starting to glow, bright blue light washing out the soft light of the candles.

When Bela returns, Keung holds out a hand without looking away. She hands over the bottle before stepping back to stand beside Dean, arms folded over her chest.

The largest rune on the top glows intensely bright for a moment before sparking, then going out entirely. Keung sniffs, cracks his knuckles. He looks up and seems surprised to see Dean still there, unmoved, just watching. But Dean has nowhere else to be, and nothing better to do. One down, six to go. 

His skin starts to itch and he claws at his right arm mindlessly, watches the runes light up one at a time only to be snuffed out. There's two left when the lights in the room cut, and Dean almost doesn't notice. The room looks greyer, colors less saturated, but he can see just fine. Beside him, Bela looks around, then at Keung. "Somebody forget to pay the bill?"

"As sure as I am that this has nothing to do with either of you," Keung says as he straightens up. 

He starts to move away from the box, and finds Dean's gun levelled at his head. It's the first time Dean's bothered to address him directly. "Where do you think you're going?"

Keung narrows his eyes at the gun, then glances at Bela. "Leash your pet, Talbot."

"I'm not the pet," Dean informs him, and cocks the weapon. It might not kill a witch, but it'll still hurt like hell.

The witch seems to consider his options, but jumps as something outside the door crashes, and there's a scream that may be in pain or in rage. "I can't rightly open your precious box if the place is burning down."

"You let me worry about that" Dean tells him. "Keep working on it."

Keung looks at Bela like she might offer some help, but she just shrugs. "I'd work quickly if I were you. Patience isn't one of his virtues."

She's right on his heels as he slips out the door and closes it quietly behind him. The air feels sharp, cutting at his eyes as he moves through the hall. He hears muted gunshots the floor above them as he steps into the main room, feels the tacky pull of blood under his his soles as he makes his way to the bar.

Something is screaming again but it's cut short by the sounds of slicing meat, flinging a fine mist of blood into the air. A flash of blue eyes in the darkness before the djinn submits to the silver knife with a heavy thump. The high-pitched shriek of the ghoul in its death throes. The wet slice of flesh as something is decapitated, the dull _thunk_ as its head hits the ground. 

The sounds move closer, flashes of movement in the dark. Bela ducks behind the bar, but Dean stands his ground, doesn't flinch when the machete whistles through the air towards his throat. The blade stops inches away, the kid holding it blinking in the dim light. 

"Holy shit," he says. He lowers the weapon, cracks a smile. He's familiar, but only just. "Dean fucking Winchester, fancy meeting you here."

Dean tries to place his face. He can't be that important, because Dean wouldn't have to think so hard. He's about to skip the thinking and get down to business when someone behind the kid goes, " _Dean?_ "

 _That_ voice he recognizes. She looks pretty much the same, but she's filled out a little — both as a woman, and in muscle. He can feel it when she punches his arm in what he imagines is supposed to be a friendly gesture.

"You _asshole_ ," she says, and she's still smiling, white teeth flashing in the darkness. "Still keeping an eye on me, huh? You know I'm old enough to vote now, yeah?"

"And not completely stupid," the boy quips. "We brought our own backup."

Someone whistles and Dean looks up, sees a young girl with dark hair and two men he doesn't know wave from the second level. The girl gives them a thumbs-up and says, "All clear up here."

"Who the hell is that?" one of the guys asks. Dean wonders if he can get up there, slit his throat, and get back down here fast enough that nobody'd notice. 

"Why do you always have to be such a dick?" Krissy yells up at him. She's laughing as she says it, and looks back down at Dean. Her smile falters, perhaps because Dean's sort of forgotten to play along, to nod his head or smile back or say a single word. "Hey, you alright?"

The boy slings an arm around her shoulders. "I almost took his head off, thought he was a vamp." He redirects to Dean. "Sorry, man. Hell, if we'd known you'd — we didn't mean to crash the party."

Dean does smile now, fingers curling around the cold grip of his .45 as he levels it at his head. "Party's just getting started, kid." 

His head snaps back as Dean squeezes the trigger, brain and bone and blood fanning out the exit wound across the floor. Krissy flinches, arms curling towards her chest. She stares at Dean for a heartbeat, and the look on her face — brows pinched, eyes wide, mouth slightly agape — is kind of comical. To her credit, she doesn't scream, just touches her hair, then pulls her hands back and stares at the blood there.

Someone upstairs shouts but it's cut short with a gurgle as Bela slices a throat open with the angel blade, warm blood spilling over the banister like a red waterfall. The other girl starts screaming and there's gunshots, and Dean leaves Krissy to contemplate her dead boyfriend as he joins Bela, cutting the second guy off before he can make it to the stairs. He takes a shot at Dean, but Dean's behind him before the hammer connects with the bullet, and snaps his neck with one hand.

Bela drops the other girl — Josephine, he thinks, but can't be bothered to fact-check  — at her feet. Bela still has her trachea in her hand. She smiles at Dean, and tosses it over the railing. "I did warn her to shut up." She bends down to wipe her bloody hand on the crumpled body of the girl. "Did you — "

She quiets when they both hear it, the unmistakable sound of a shotgun being cocked. Dean turns around and can see Krissy at the top of the stairs, barrel pointed at his chest. 

"Oh, please don't," Bela implores from behind him. "Shotguns are a pain in the arse to clean up."

"You killed him," Krissy says.

Dean shrugs and tucks one hand into his pocket. "I never liked that little asshole."

Krissy raises the gun, moves closer. "What the _fuck_ , Dean, why did you — "

He takes two steps forward, grabs the barrel, and points it up by the time she's squeezed the trigger. He keeps his hold on the gun and considers her. "I told you to never hesitate," Dean says, and he's kind of disappointed. She knows better to get this close — at ten feet, that gun would have still been effective if he was human. He lets his real eyes show, and smiles at the way her complexion pales. "He wasn't good enough for you anyway, sweetheart."

He takes her by the hair and to her credit, she fights him the entire way as he drags her back down the stairs. Bela is yelling something behind him, but he can't hear her over Krissy's cursing, and whatever it is can wait. They're not leaving until he has what they came here for, so it's not like they don't have time.

Krissy crumples to the floor as he flings her against the bar. He has rope in the car, but Krissy will be gone before he gets it, so he improvises; the belt at her waist will work. She tries to scramble away, frantic, when he goes for the buckle until he smacks her across the face. He has to pull the blow so not to break her jaw or pass out, just enough to knock the sense out of her while he pulls the strip of leather free and uses it to secure her wrists behind her to one of the wooden supports.

By the time he's finished Bela has joined him, arms folded across her chest. "If you wanna play with this one, we should take her elsewhere. There could be more of them around."

Dean considers it. It's a 60/40 draw; the kids were smart enough to bring backup, and might have more outside. He grabs the girl by her neck and drags her to her feet; Krissy splutters, gasping for breath, but stays standing once he releases her. The right side of her face is starting to swell, and her teeth are bloody. "Any more surprises?"

Krissy spits the blood in her mouth at his face. "Fuck you." 

Dean doesn't wince, just calmly wipes it away. Krissy shrinks back against the bar as he leans in, bracing an arm above her head and brings his face right alongside hers. He traces the knife along her waist with his other hand, blade biting at the strip of skin exposed between her shirt and her jeans. 

"All right, Kitty Pryde, we can do this the easy way or the hard way." He lets the point of the blade dig into the jut of her hip, where the bone is closest to the skin. Krissy grits her teeth and her head snaps back against the wood. "You can either have a bad night, or an _epically_ bad night. Results are the same for me either way, but I'd really prefer not ruin my shoes."

Bela watches him work, mostly impassive — once or twice, though, Dean can see her wince in his peripheral vision. Krissy is tougher than Dean expects, but he gets a few pieces of information he can use. 

He has to be careful, because human bodies are weak and prone to things like blood loss and shock, things he never had to worry about in Hell, where the pain could go on for weeks and it made no difference. By the time the door in the back opens, Dean doesn't have to cut anymore, just asks a question and Krissy answers without a fight. Dean's grateful for the distraction because he's gotten rather bored now that the fight's gone out of her.

"Jesus fucking Chr — " Keung reevaluates his choice of words when Dean and Bela turn to look at him. He eyes Krissy sagging against the pillar, and watches her slide to the floor as Dean releases her. "What the fuck happened?"

"Hunter raid," Bela supplies with a shrug. "You're getting sloppy in your old age, Keung."

Dean has zero fucks to give as far as Keung's security or dead patronage. "Do you have it?"

Keung looks at Dean, then back at Krissy. "She still alive?"

Krissy can still walk, if slowly, so Dean just drags her into the back room, stepping over the dead bodies of the djinn decaying on the floor. The lockbox still sits on the table and looks the same as it did before, but the chalk circle beneath it is charred black and burned into the tabletop. The room smells like sulfur. 

"Bitch of a thing," Keung mutters, and shrugs. 

"Open it." Dean shoves Krissy towards the table. She cries out when her waist hits the edge, buckling over. She braces her hands on the wood and Dean sees her body tense, ready for a fight. 

Dean no longer has the patience for that, and feels the anger flash through him like poison. There isn't much more he can do without killing her, but he needs her alive and she's fortunate for that. If he could play by Hell's rules she wouldn't have the will to challenge him. He could shred her into pieces so small she'd feel them on an atomic level, filet the very fabric of her soul until all that remained was agony.

Krissy shudders against the table and chokes on whatever sound she tries to make, knees buckling beneath her. Dean watches in curious fascination and thinks about what he could do to her, this time with intent, curls his left hand around things unseen and smiles as she curls into a fetal position on the floor. The mark on his arm sears against his skin like a brand and Dean feels his eyes shift, lets the inviting warmth of Hell roll through him, invisible strings tugging at her soul like some kind of telepathic voodoo doll.

When he relents she starts to shake, fingers curling tightly around her sides. "Please," she sobs into the floor. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, just stop. Please. Whatever you want. I'll do whatever you want."

"Open it," he says again.

She takes too long crawling to her feet so Dean drags her up by the neck and holds her there, lets the point of the knife in his hand dig into the small of her back as a reminder. 

When her trembling hands finally edge the lid off the box, all three of them take a reflexive step back; salt spills out of the lid, flooding the table and getting stuck where the wood is still wet from the spellwork. Fine grains sprinkle across the floor by her feet.

Krissy grabs a fistfull of the salt, spins around and throws it directly in Dean's face.

Bela's cursing and he can hear Kueng trying to rattle off a spell but Dean's clawing at his face with both hands, demon knife forgotten. The salt sticks in the corners of his eyes and to the blood still on his face and _fuck_. Dean has a new appreciation for every demon he's ever subjected this to. It burns like acid, drills its way down to the bone and Dean's seriously considering flaying off his own skin to _make it stop_ before someone has a damp towel on his face, to wipe the worst of it away.

" _Cunt_ ," Dean snaps, pushing Bela off him. The cloth helps but salt, much like sand, manages to find every nook and cranny and sticks, little pinpricks nipping at his skin with every movement. It's been half a day and he needs a goddamn shower again. 

"She can't have got far," Bela says. "Little bitch took your demon sticker, too. Do you want me to — "

"No," Dean snarls, shaking out his shirt. When he blinks away the wetness in his eyes, his prize comes into focus, still lying lengthwise in the box and half-covered in salt. "I have what I want."

The pain is an afterthought as he curls his fingers around the hilt, salt smoking against his skin. Dean closes his eyes and exhales, feels his eyes roll back as the heat rush through him like sweet relief. The mark on his arm pulses in time with his heartbeat, power branching out and down his arm, twisting in knots over the bones of his wrist and fingers until his fist constricts, the blade becoming an extension of his arm. 

When he opens his eyes, he can see both Bela and her witch wincing. "Allow me," the witch says, and with a few words, Dean feels the salt peel away. It leaves his skin feeling raw, and the pain surges back like an afterthought, but it only lasts an instant.

Dean smiles at the witch and says, "Thanks," before stepping into his space and plunging the blade into his midsection, through layers of silvery silk and skin and organ and bone, until he feels the tip hit the spine. The soul inside screams, and abruptly goes silent as Dean gives the blade a twist, shriek breaking like broken glass.

Kueng lurches in his grip, blood bubbling up and spilling out of his mouth. Dean watches it flow over his lips and chin, drip down onto the floor between them. 

"Seriously?" Bela snaps, reminding Dean she exists.

Dean pulls back and lets the body fall to the floor. He inhales and blinks, is consumed by a full body shudder, the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck standing on end as the flash of heat rolls through him. "One less witch I've got to kill later."

Bela rolls her eyes, stepping carefully over the corpse. No reason they both need to change. "Just couldn't wait to blow your load, huh?"

"I didn't see you step up and volunteer as tribute," Dean points out. He does feel different, but it's hard to describe how; like an addict jonesing for a fix and finally getting one, only to find out he never has to come down from the high. One infinite hit. Calm and simultaneously giddy. Fucking _invincible_. He smirks at Bela. "What d'you say we light the roof of this shitstack on fire and get the hell outta Dodge?"

There's plenty of flammable shit about the place but it's tedious, and by the time they've prepped the place to burn Dean's feeling restless, ready to move on. Krissy had mostly useless information, but one item caught his interest. An old promise he means to keep.

He tosses Bela the keys so she can get the plastic hose out of the Impala's trunk and takes the proffered clean t-shirt. He changes while she siphons fuel from the old pickup they parked beside, admires the curve of her body as she bends down to saturate the wooden trim of the building.

"That should do it," Bela says, dropping the can. She smells like gasoline. He always did like the scent.

Dean gives her a proper once-over; not his first choice, but yeah, she'll do.

Bela breathes out hard against his face when he picks her up and slams ther into the wall. Her legs wrap around his waist and he grabs her by her thighs, hard enough to make her gasp. He takes the invitation of her open mouth. She makes a noise of surprise, and he swallows it. 

She's clawing his shirt up his back when he carries her over to the hood of the car, bunching it up around his shoulders as lands on top of her, hips pressed between her legs. He's moving on autopilot, hands pulling at clothes and mouth roaming over skin, tightly wound up with raw _want_. She's warm under his fingers, mouth indefinitely hot against his own.

He comes up to breathe on instinct, and that's when it all goes to hell. Her eyes, still human, don't look any different; but there's ice under his fingertips, a palpable terror that makes him feel physically ill. A glimpse of the soul still trapped in her body, backed up as far as it can go in its own mind, silenced and still screaming. 

She blinks and it's gone, black eyes sliding over just a second too late. Dean rolls off her, cursing. 

Bela collapses behind him, chest heaving against the black hood. When Dean yanks his shirt back down, he hears her sigh. 

"You need to get over it," she says, not bothering to hide her frustration. "The sooner you do, the easier it gets."

Dean doesn't answer. He picks his jacket off the ground, and lights the gasoline on his way out of the parking lot.

It's a long walk before he sees any sign of life. There's a few bars still open, neon signs glaring harshly into the dark streets. Dean lets the smell of souls guide him, picks the one that seems ripest. The TV is too loud and there's a louder pack of camo-clad douchebags cluttering up the pool table, but the noise is good for cover.

The only woman in the bar is the ancient bartender with a wandering eye and a permanent grimace. Packs of off-duty soldiers mill between yelling at the horserace on the flatscreen and refilling their beers. He could go somewhere else but can't figure out why, not when he has plenty to choose from right here. He can still taste foreign saliva in his mouth, feel the ghost of hands on his skin. He wants to feel it again.

It doesn't take him long to zero in on a mark at the bar.

Dean catches his eye and just waits, sees the flicker of interest and smiles. The guy looks away, turning his attention back to the buddy chatting at his shoulder. But Dean's patient, and he's got nothing but time. Waits for those blue eyes to shift back to him, lingering a little longer each time.

The man's friend eventually grows bored with his one-sided conversation and wanders off, and Dean moves in for the kill.

"I, uh — " He dips his head, acknowledging Dean with a quick glance. He's wearing some kind of military uniform, like most of the guys in here. Must be a base nearby. "I really don't," his eyes give Dean a brief once over before meeting his gaze, "you know."

Dean leans back against the bar, body laid out in invitation. The hem of his shirt rides up just enough to expose the skin near his hips. He can see the man's fingers flex, hear the increase in his heart rate. "I won't tell if you don't."

It's less work than any chick he's ever picked up, that's for sure.

Dean never learns his name. He learns that teeth along his collarbone make him twitch, that a rough hand over his dick works better than a gentle one, and that when he comes he bites his lip so hard he bleeds. Dean learns that he enjoys it more when he's one pinned to the wall, swallowing a moan so the people on the street and in the building behind them carry on blissfully unaware, half-heartedly fighting the hand pinning his wrists to the brick. Dean wants to take so much more, wants to hear the sounds he'd make for Dean if Dean had the patience or the place or the time, but the guy's mouth works just fine, impossibly hot and slick as Dean thrusts into it.

He leaves the guy there when he's finished, limbs loose and mind clear. He finds Bela waiting for him on the hood of the Impala she double-parked on the street, her long legs dangling off the side. She takes one look at him and raises an eyebrow. "Got yourself sorted, then?"

Dean wordlessly holds his hand out for the keys. Bela hands them over, and he sees her eyes drift over his shoulder, the sound of heavy boots making themselves scarce. Bela looks back at him and raises an eyebrow, eyes sliding from the retreating guy to Dean with surprise mixed with approval. 

"I like you better without shame," she says, hopping off the hood and opening the passenger door. "Though, next time, be a chap and let a lady watch."

+


	5. Chapter 5

**everyday evil**

* * *

  


iv.

  


Sam sighs as he pulls the car up to the curb. "Well, I guess Jody's tip was right."

Castiel frowns at the scene outside the windshield. The remnants of the two-story building are scorched black and still smoking from the recent fire that wreaked havoc on it. He can count at least seven patrol cars, four fire engines, two ambulances and a coroner's van crammed in the street and the empty lot beside it. The red, yellow and blue lights of the sirens dance over the street like some kind of grim kaleidoscope. 

Neither of them are dressed to impersonate officers, but Sam brought them spare suits, so they drive up the unblocked portion of the street until they find a gas station to change. Castiel remains silent during most of the interactions unless directly addressed, content to let Sam do the talking. The fire burned away most of the sigils painted on the brick outside, but Castiel can recognize the partial angel warding for what it is. Enough of it's gone that he can safely follow Sam inside, at least, and is slightly surprised by what they find.

"It's a damn massacre," the deputy sheriff informs them. "Nineteen bodies, and that's just what we've found so far. There's evidence someone got away, or at least tried to."

"Any killed by the fire?" Sam inquires.

"If only," the man says, looking sick. "Mostly stab wounds, from what the ME can tell with the preliminaries. Though there's a few that would've been better off burnin' to death. I got a young woman with her throat ripped out. I ain't being figurative, neither; her body was on the the second floor. We found most of her neck down here."

Sam makes the appropriate face of disgust, but Castiel can't be bothered. The building reeks of sulfur, and while that may not be obvious to the police with the fire, Castiel can feel the lingering heat of brimstone beneath it.

"You said there's evidence someone escaped?" Sam prompts, and the man leads them to the remains of the bar, scorched worse than the rest from the busted bottles of alcohol. 

There's a charred puddle of something tacky on the floor, and Castiel knows it's blood before their escort explains. "Most of the spatter in this place has a body to go along with it, but this one," he shrugs. "Either there's not enough of her left that we've found her, or she was gone before the place went up in flames."

"Her?" Castiel asks, squatting down to inspect it. He knows better than to touch when the sheriff's eyes are on him; he waits for Sam to pull the man's attention away before running his fingers over it. 

"Yeah, her." He waves a technician over and takes an evidence bag off his hands. "Found this in it. You know any guys that sport rhinestones on their belts?"

Castiel almost points out that's hardly a definite way to determine gender, but they happen to be correct in their deductions. "She bled a significant amount," Castiel says as he stands. "I am surprised she was able to flee."

The man huffs. "Adrenaline'll getcha further than ya' think."

"I don't suppose there's any security cameras," Sam says, but the man shakes his head. "Any luck with IDs?"

"None, and that's weird enough without this," he leads them to the other side of the bar to a group of charred bodies still waiting to be removed. There's so much death here that it will likely take multiple trips of the vans outside. "The fire was still burning when we got on site. I wasn't close enough to see shit outside the smoke, but I got six firefighters ready to swear on the Pope that this group was burning bright green."

"Trick of the light?" Sam suggests, almost as if on reflex.

"You e're been next to a raging fire, son? In the middle of the night? Trick of the light," the man rolls his eyes. "Most likely, some kind of weird accelerant they used when they lit the place."

"They?" Castiel asks this time. "There was more than one perpetrator?"

The man stares at Castiel like he's insane. "You really think one person could'a done all this?"

"Holy shit," Sam says, after they've left. He tugs at his tie before unbuttoning his shirt collar, and runs a hand through his hair. "How many of those bodies were human?"

"Four." That's what surprised Castiel, more than the destruction and the brutality. Sam is still coming to terms with what his brother has become, but he has no such delusions. "Five, if you count the witch."

Sam pauses in starting the car. "Witch?"

"Yes." Castiel could sense the spellwork, even if he couldn't identify the body. Even Sam could recognize the blackened remains of the lockbox, broken open in the backroom. "I am curious to know how Dean located one on such short notice, especially one with the considerable skill necessary to break through those runes."

"Nobody I knew," Sam says quietly. He leaves unsaid the numerous times Dean had to make his way without Sam, when Sam was at school or simply wanted nothing to do with him. "Alright, well, Jody says there's no more hits on the Impala, so Dean doesn't want us tailing him anymore. The local PD sent over some footage that might help us out. You hungry?"

"Not particularly."

Sam takes them to a diner anyway, one with free WiFi so he can patch into the footage with his laptop and review it while they eat. Castiel is politely refusing dessert but accepting a refill on his coffee when Sam's eyebrows raise up into his hairline. He waits until the waitress leaves before turning the computer around so Castiel can see what's caught his attention.

He sees the figure dash across the street, blurry in the low light, but she's clearing holding a weapon of some kind. There's a definite limp to her gait, but it doesn't appear to slow her down much. Castiel watches as she breaks the driver side window of a car parked on the street and wastes no time in getting inside. Seventy-five seconds later the car pulls away, wheels spinning momentarily before finding grip. There's no view of the rear and no license plate in the front.

"She survived." Castiel is surprised. It's curious that Dean would let her escape, much less not pursue. Perhaps he was distracted. "I do not see how this will help us, however, unless you have another angle?"

Sam lets out a sound that's almost a laugh. "Sometimes it's easy to forget how many of our friends you don't actually know," he admits. 

Castiel raises an eyebrow to convey his own disbelief, but decides not to comment that the reason for that is the Winchesters’ friends frequently don't live long enough for him to have a chance. Sam rewinds the tape a few minutes, to the precise moment the woman — she's more of a child, really — looks at the camera. "We don't track the car. We track Krissy Chambers."

+

The Atlantic Ocean has a distinctly different smell from the Pacific. Dean noticed it when he was human, he supposes, but never bothered to analyze it. The sharp scent of salt is muted beneath the heavier smog on the east coast, waters tainted with a larger helping of human pollution. Dean doesn't particularly care about the local ecosystem, but it makes his nose wrinkle involuntarily. The stench almost blocks out the half-million or so souls inhabiting the city perched along the edge of the coast, half a mile away.

Why couldn't Walt have been hunting mermaids in fucking Santa Monica?

Dean surveys the remains; Roy died quickly, and Dean dumps him overboard without much thought. Walt, though.... well, there's not much left to dispose of. He's acting on autopilot, cleaning up the mess, but it doesn't really matter; even if anyone can manage an ID, it's not like he has to worry about showing up on the FBI's most wanted list anymore.

Killing him was long overdue. Dean always intended to keep his promise, but one thing always led to another and Walt had wisely kept his distance. His mistake. He should have let Dean kill him years ago, when it would have been a quick shot to the head.

Dean was involuntarily  impressed at how long Walt held out, though eventually Dean had to gag him. Sound carried too well over water, and this channel was busy enough even after midnight that the Coast Guard was never far. Dean didn't want to be interrupted.

"Took you long enough," Bela says when he reappears on the dock. Dean left the boat and the bloody mess anchored where he found it. "You can always visit him in the pit."

Dean thinks there's enough eager razors in the pit to finish what he started. Besides, Walt had broken down begging two minutes in, and that's just _boring_. The  reason he had fun with Bela was she defied him with every slice.

The blade isn't designed for torture, but it did the job, and had the desired effect once Walt had succumbed to his wounds. Killing him hadn't been as satisfying as the witch, but the ache in has arm has faded to almost nothing. The nausea is gone, and his head no longer aches. Despite being covered head-to-toe in blood, he feels clean — refreshed, like he's just stepped out of a shower after a long day on the road, limbs loose and mind clear.

"So what do you say, Winchester?" Bela prompts. The Miami skyline glitters behind her in invitation. "Ready to have some fun?"

Dean either wants to fuck something or kill something. Possibly both if the opportunity arises. He scans the skyline, buildings bright with scattered lights, and grins.

For all the evil he and Sam hunted down over their sorry lives, they never caught wind of something wicked down here. The city is ripe with opportunity, a seething pit of debauchery and bad decisions that most monsters would make a feast out of. Large cities were always a challenge, though, trying to weed out the evil of something supernatural versus the everyday evil of humans. 

Finding parking proves impossible so he leaves Bela with the car after tugging a fresh shirt over his chest. He probably didn't need to bother, since half the city seems to be walking around half-clad in swimwear despite it being the middle of the night. A digital billboard proclaims it's 12:47 AM, 85 degrees, clear skies and high tide. It's certainly warmer here than on the water, but Dean still feels cold.

He picks a club at random and looks for relief in the mass of bodies, merges with the undulating bodies on the dance floor, and immerses himself in the sea of souls. Some shitty DJ remix of a pop song pulses through the room like a heartbeat, and bodies writhe in time with the beat. He lets himself drift, directionless but not without purpose. He feels like a fucking mosquito in a nudist colony; instinctively, he knows what to do, he just doesn't know where to _start_.

_Baby, I'm preying on you tonight. Hunt you down, eat you alive._

Much of the beauty here is fake; painted on, surgically implanted, disguised behind glitter and revealing clothes. It's dark enough Dean can let his eyes shift and peek at the glimmering spirits beneath their skins, zeros in on the brightest beacons in the room and drifts towards them.

_Maybe you think that you can hide, but I can smell your scent from miles._

He doesn't know what exactly being demonic lends him, but it's almost too easy how quickly the girl meets his eyes and smiles. She slides her body up and down his torso in invitation, lets him lead her off the dance floor and into the first bathroom he finds. He picks her up and holds her against the wall of a stall and she doesn't halt him when he gets a hand between her legs, shoves her underwear out of the way and slides in, encases himself in her wet heat. 

Dean has to clamp a hand over her mouth to stifle her moans, because there's a dozen more that could take her place, and he's just getting started.

+

Krissy's number is still saved on one of Dean's old phones, and Sam sends a quick thank-you up above that Krissy hasn't ditched it yet. 

"God doesn't listen to prayers anymore," Castiel points out from the front seat. Sam is stretched out as much as he can in the back, trying to nap and track her GPS at the same time. "He hasn't for a long time."

Sam's half asleep, eyes bleary as he watches the little dot ping it's way down Route 10 through the panhandle of Florida. It takes a moment for him to register Cas' words. "What? You mean since he left?"

"Not since humanity was expelled from the Garden."

Sam frowns at his phone. Krissy needs to sleep at some point, and he can't risk dozing off until she halts for the night. He might trust Cas to drive, but not enough to navigate at the same time. He's seen enough of the billboards with the ambulances on them, the ominous _you don't want us responding to your next text_ coming off like more of a threat than a friendly reminder.

"Wait, what?" Sam says again. He sits up and rubs his eyes. "Who the hell are people praying to, then?"

"Us. Angels," Cas adds quickly, as if he doesn't count anymore. "When Joshua told you that God hasn't intervened in a long time, he was telling the truth. When they're directed at God, we hear them. Call it a — " Cas pauses, and Sam can see his head tilt slightly as he searches for the correct word, " — a filter."

Sam thinks about all those times on the road when he'd sneak a prayer in. It was the same one, every time — _let Dad come back_ — the only thing that changed was the reason. At first, because he genuinely missed John. Sometime between the ages of four and twelve it became less about John coming back safe and more about keeping Dean from pacing a rut into the cheap motel carpet waiting for him to return.

Sam scrubs a hand through his hair and grimaces. He needs a shower. "So when we pray to you — "

"That's different. You're praying to me specifically." Castiel actually takes the time to signal before changing lanes and it makes Sam smile a little, even now, to think of what Dean would have to say about that. "Those are private, but undirected prayers can be heard by any angel inclined to listen."

"Did you ever, uh," Sam blinks at the bright lights of the oncoming traffic on the other side of the median. He leans forward, crossing his arms over the back of the front seats. "I mean, before all this, did you ever answer any before?"

Castiel is quiet for a long time. Long enough that Sam's half-asleep on the seatback and jumps a little when he finally speaks. "I was tempted." It sounds like a confession, something whispered to a priest before asking for forgiveness. "There were times that I — " Cas pauses, then sighs. Sam sees his shoulder shift in his peripheral vision. "We were forbidden to intervene."

Sam glances at his phone. Krissy's signal hasn't moved on from a small city called Crestview, and if she's still there in twenty minutes, he's calling it a night. "What about all those, uh, y'know, miraculously healed cancers and people waking up in morgues? They can't all be black magic and demon deals." 

At least, Sam hopes not.

"No," and Sam isn't certain, but he's pretty sure he hears some bitterness in Cas' tone. "Some of it is natural. Human bodies are surprisingly resilient, despite how fragile morality is overall. I was not the only angel tasked with watching over humanity. For all the good you do, there is ten times as much suffering. Much of it is undeserved. It's hard to witness, and even harder to listen to." 

The driver of the car in front of them keeps tapping the brakes, and Sam sways as Cas cuts into the left lane to get around it. "Many of my kin just stopped listening," Cas continues. "To prayers. It made it easier to follow orders. Others — " Cas pauses again, hands twisting on the steering wheel. "I am not the first to have fallen for disobedience."

Sam almost reaches out and squeezes his shoulder in solidarity, but Cas is sitting so rigid in his seat Sam is worried the touch might make him swerve. "Well, for what it's worth," Sam says instead, "I think the world's better off with you down here trying to help than up there just watching it burn."

Castiel says nothing, and from the back seat, Sam can't read his expression. Not that Sam can ever read him, not really; that was always Dean's thing. _Is_ Dean's thing. Sam isn't above admitting having been a little jealous at first. The two of them always seemed to be perfectly in tune, so dialed up into each other that it often left Sam feeling a little bit of a third wheel. He spent his entire life having Dean's full attention — as soon as Castiel touched down, he's felt that overbearing urgency shift, little by little, and recently he's begun to wonder that if Dean were forced to choose, if he could.

Sam glances at his phone again; Krissy hasn't moved on, so it's safe to assume she's finally succumbed to sleep. Or worse, blood loss. They're still about six hours behind. "You think you can follow the highway for a bit while I grab a nap?"

"Has she stopped?"

"For now," Sam says, through a yawn. "Outside of Crestview. Give or take six hours if you keep going steady."

"We could get there faster."

Sam considers. This time of night, State Patrol has nothing better to do than lurk in the dark corners of on ramps with radar guns at the ready. How Dean managed to cruise just below 100 miles an hour at all times without getting pulled over was a mystery, but Sam's never had that kind of luck. "I really don't want to wake up to handcuffs."

Castiel glances back at him, and Sam can swear he almost smiles. "Do you really think it was luck that for all your time on the road, Dean was never once pulled over for speeding?"

The idea that Cas has been watching their every move this whole time — or at least, Dean's every move — is as much creepy as it is embarrassing. "I thought you weren't allowed to intervene?"

Cas does smile now, before turning his head back to look at the road. "I may have abused a few loopholes."

Sam snorts a laugh and lays back, and the last thing he hears before he falls asleep is the roar of the throttle.

+

The bass pulses like a heartbeat, slow and steady and so loud he can't even distinguish the lyrics of whatever hip-hop crap is blasting. Dean has his elbows balanced on the bar behind him and watches the bodies twist and writhe on the dance floor, slaves to the beat the DJ sets. Green and purple lasers cut through the smoke, and Dean watches those, lets his eyes zoom in until he can see the individual photons arc through the air. 

He can feel Bela's eyes on him, lurking somewhere out of sight. She followed him when he migrated to the inner city hoping for some variety — the music is different and the drinks are cheaper and the average skin tone is darker, but beyond that it's just more of the same. Packs of girls dressed in cutoff jeans and bikini tops, looking for some poor asshole to cover their tab. Lonely men looking to obligate them into sex. A vicious circle of unreturned phone calls and venereal disease. 

A warm body presses close to his. Something citrus and floral assaults his senses. Dean blinks, and refocuses. 

The girl smiles at him, large eyes and teeth blinding white against her dark skin. "You look lonely, honey. Why don't you buy me a drink?"

He really isn't. He sips at his drink, and lets the dull burn of the whiskey wash over his tongue and down his throat before answering. "And you look desperate, sweetheart. Why don't you buy your own?"

"Why don't you go fuck yourself," she spits back at him, and Dean grins. "I don't want your little dick, anyway. Fucking asshole."

He watches her go, or more specifically watches her ass go, her cheeks peeking out beneath the little booty shorts she's wearing. He can probably salvage that if he wants to, play it off as a joke and then make her beg for it. But it's not the first advance he's turned down tonight, and he doubts it will be the last.

He just can't be fucking bothered. 

Dean takes another drink and grimaces. When the hell did sex get _boring?_

He watches as the girl moves towards the pack of bachelors at the other end of the bar, the typically loud and obnoxious douche bags in too-big pants and beaters. Like most of the patrons, they range in shade from honey to almond to copper, skin warmed by tropical sun, but most of it is covered in gang tattoos. They seem much more receptive to her advances, and one of the men slings an ink-adorned arm over her shoulder and reels her in. She throws her head back and laughs, breasts bouncing beneath the strips of her bikini top. 

Dean downs the rest of his whiskey and wanders over. 

The men don't notice him sidle up, but the girl does. She narrows her eyes at him, but the glare eases when he gives her a slow smile. "What d'ya want, little dick?"

Dean licks his lips, watches her eyes follow the movement. "Changed my mind about that drink."

"That so," she says, but she's smiling back. It's like he doesn't even have to _try_. It may have been fun the first time, but it's getting old real fast. "Why?"

Dean shrugs, and when he sees the guy on her other side finally notice him, leans in and winks at her. "I put you on my list of things to do tonight."

Cheesy as it is, it gets her full attention, and Dean's still grinning at her when a strong hand grips his shoulder and yanks him back, throwing him against the bar. 

The douchebag with a death wish is in his face, shouting shit in Spanish, and Dean's focus flips like a switch. For the first time in days, he feels the familiar rush of heat just under his skin that sends him soaring. He watches the man shout nonsense in slow motion, counts his heart beats and times the expansion of his diaphragm, so when Dean steps into his space and throws the punch in the same movement, three knuckles connect solidly with the man's solar plexus on the inhale. Human, the punch would've stunned him — Dean can feel the ribs crack against his fist, punch inward and pierce the soft flesh they used to protect.

The guy drops like a sack of dead meat, and the girl jumps back, clamping a hand over her mouth. She stares at Dean with wide eyes, then pulls her hand away and starts yelling at him, too. The words are like white noise, blending in with the noise of the club. Dean doesn't have the attention to spare listening; the guy’s friends have noticed their comrade on the floor, and circle Dean like a pack of wolves.

Dean reaches over his head and stretches, and feels the blade dig into the small of his back where it's tucked into his waistband. He doesn't really need it, not for this — besides, if he kills them with _that_ , they won't get to do the eternal tour of torment awaiting them downstairs.

He ducks the first idiot to rush him, catches him between the legs and lifts him right over the shoulder. Dean hears the body crash behind the bar, thuds and broken glass and surprised, angry shouts. The next guy gets propelled face-first into one of his friends, heads colliding so hard one of their skulls breaks, half his face drooping before gravity takes the rest down to the floor. 

The remaining three move forward together, clearly no longer underestimating him. Dean disarms one with a kick, throws the second into the far wall with a wave of his hand, and grabs the third by the throat. He can feel the heartbeat racing under the skin, pounding through the jugular against his palm as the music plays on. Sees the terror in the man's eyes as Dean smiles and squeezes, cuts off the air and blood flow and doesn't stop until something inside _snaps_. Warmth floods through Dean's arm and branches out, jolting down his spine like an electric shock. The familiar heat in his veins is so intense now he's feeling dizzy with it.

Five gunshots ring out, loud _pop_ 's breaking the beat of the song, and the shouts around Dean turn into screams.

People on the dance floor — unaware of the fight — hear the shots and start to stampede. The rap music cuts short and instead the air is full of screams, the thunder of dozens of feet trying to find an exit in the darkness. It's a tsunami of rushing bodies, the scent of fear off their souls a palpable thing. Dean drops the man he was holding by the throat, lets the masses trample over him. The girl tries to make a run for it, but she has to go around Dean and he catches her by the hair, snapping her to a halt. 

Dean pulls the blade out from under his jacket with his other hand, uses it to smooth the flyaway strands of hair out of her face. "Where d'you think you're goin', sweetheart?"

Her chest moves up and down with each ragged breath, eyes-wide like a deer in headlights. He lowers the weapon and smiles, listens to her heart rate drop, shoulders sagging in relief. "Look, dude, I won't say anything," she promises. "Please. I just wanna go home."

Dean _tsks_ , leans in and lets his lips ghost her ear. "I told you, I put you on my list of things to do tonight." Her mouth opens as he presses the blade in through her back, but whatever sound she was going to make is cut short when he gives it a twist. The soul inside shorts out like an electrical socket someone jammed a fork into, lighting up beneath her skin before fizzling out into nothingness.

Her body joins the pile at his feet, rolling to the side. Her eyes are open but lifeless, mouth agape, and one of her breasts slips free of her top. The club is empty now, aside from Bela standing across him him, Baretta still clasped in her fist and pointed at the floor. "Was that really necessary?" 

"She's still warm if you want a suit that's easier on the eyes." He wipes the blade clean on a bar rag, before tossing it over the dead girl's face. Bela just glares, and Dean rolls his eyes. "Don't you have anything better to do than be a buzz kill?"

"Don't you have anything better to do than make the news every other day?"

"You're the one that turned this into a 217 call."

"Yeah, because I'm pretty sure they don't have a call code for flinging people into walls." 

She waves at the idiot still pinned to the wall, still shouting gibberish at them. Bela raises her gun, and squeezes off two rounds into his chest, and Dean lets the now-dead body fall. He feels a lot better — warmer, calmer — but since Bela scared off any chance of celebrating, Dean helps himself to a bottle from behind the counter before stepping over the bodies at his feet and taking a swig. He could wait around and have a little more fun, but police are armed, and he really doesn't fancy putting more holes in his body. And he's starting to run out of fresh clothes.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?"

Dean swallows and licks his lips. "Blowing this popsicle stand. Cops respond quick to shots fired."

"How about cleaning up your mess?" Bela snaps at his back.

Dean glances back over his shoulder, eyes black. "What the fuck am I keeping you around for?"

He doesn't wait around, so he doesn't see Bela squat down to the bodies on the floor. One of the men is still breathing, raggedly, and moans something in Spanish when she pulls him up into a sitting position. The noise is cut short by the slice of her dagger. Blood pulses out of the artery in his neck and Bela catches what she needs in the chalice before letting the body fall on the ground with the rest of the trash.

The blood bubbles in answer to her incantation, twisting around the soft whisper at the other end. Even trans-dimensionally, it bleeds irritation. 

"You're the one who let him off his leash," Bela points out.

The answering murmur causes the blood to curl and ripple; Bela resists the urge to roll her eyes. "He's starting to get bored. I'm going to need some help."

+

Castiel sweeps the surroundings, but it's late enough that the parking lot is dark and quiet. He closes the door softly behind them, careful to step over the salt line drawn across the threshold. The grains are stark against the thin trail of blood leading from the door towards the bathroom.

The woman is laid out on the bed, unconscious. 'Woman' is a generous term, Castiel knows; she's more of a child, despite being old enough to bear her own. She looks ever younger now, pale skin beading with sweat from the fever, completely ignorant of the fact that Sam picked the lock of the motel room and let them both inside when she didn't answer the door.

She's still wearing the same clothes from the video footage, stained dark brown with blood. When Castiel joins Sam beside the bed, he lifts her shirt just enough to expose her midsection. 

"Jesus Christ," Sam says, letting the shirt wall and recoiling. "Shit. Do you have the — "

Castiel hands him the bag, then pulls the clothing away to get a closer look. The girl has already attempted some remedial first aid, and had likely given up when she realized it was pointless. Castiel places a hand against her forehead, then against her throat. "Sam — "

"Here, pack wrap this around her. We need to call an amb — "

"Sam," Castiel says again. Sam glares at him. "They will not be able to help her."

"What? What are you — she's — no, fuck that. Dean and I have survived worse, and she's half our age. She'll — "

"She should have gone to a hospital immediately," Castiel says, pulling his hand away. "The infection has already reached her bloodstream. She's going into septic shock."

A group of people wander past the window, their laughs the only sound while Sam processes the diagnosis.

"She's just a kid," he says, dropping the bag on the floor and moving to the bedside. He smooths away the dark hair plastered to her forehead, and Castiel watches the tendon in his jaw flex beneath his skin. His hand falls away, and when he glances back at Castiel, he looks furious. "There's gotta be something we can do."

Castiel sighs. His wings feel heavy over his shoulders, even tucked out of view. "Short of visiting a crossroads — "

"What about," Sam waves vaguely upwards. "There's gotta be someone you can call."

Even if Dean hadn't killed half of Castiel's remaining garrison, he doesn't have any friends left. Not after he chose a human over his own kind. "They owe us nothing."

"Bullshit, they don't. We got them back into Heaven. We gave them Metatron. Dean — " Sam snaps his mouth shut and runs a hand through his hair. " _Fuck_."

"I'm sorry." He means it, even if he didn't know the girl. She clearly means something to Sam, and while innocent people die every day, the Winchester have lost enough friends that Castiel would help if he could. "Even if I used what little power I have left, it wouldn't be enough. Not for this."

Sam sinks down onto the end of the bed, elbows balanced on his knees. "What if — " He glances up at Castiel. "That time you had to get me and Dean back from 1861. After the phoenix?"

"Absolutely not." It's not worth the risk — this girl may be innocent, but she's not that important. Not in the grand scheme. She may die, but her soul will go to Heaven. There are worse fates.

"You did it for Bobby."

"I did it for _Dean_ ," Castiel corrects. Too many seconds tick by for Castiel to add _and you_ , and it would be a lie, anyway. "And I was wounded then, but now I'm — " _dying_ , but Sam already knows that. "It's dangerous enough on a healthy person, and you may feel fine, but you're still healing. She is not worth — "

Sam is on his feet and in Castiel's face so quickly that Castiel takes a step back. "You don't get to decide what her life is worth," he says, and jabs a finger in Castiel's chest for emphasis. "That's not your call, Cas. It's mine." 

Castiel glances over Sam's shoulder at the girl on the bed, a girl whose name he's already forgotten. It's easier if she remains nameless, an anonymous death among so many others that couldn't have been avoided. Still, something curls tightly inside of him as he looks her over, a deep discomfort that won't be pushed aside. Beneath the wounds and the infection raging through her body, her soul shines bright. It's unscarred by Hell and Purgatory, hasn't seen enough evil yet to dim the bright energy of hope.

"She might not mean anything to you, but she means something to Dean," Sam says, drawing Castiel's eyes back. "If you won't do it for me and you won't do it for her, do it for _him_."

Castiel wants to remind him that Dean isn't his brother anymore. Castiel wants to tell him what he saw in the bunker, the twisted black smoke behind Dean's eyes, the twisted shadow beginning to take form beneath his skin. The man Sam is asking a favor for no longer exists. The soul Castiel fell from grace for is gone.

"This will probably kill you," Castiel tells him instead, rolling back his sleeve. 

Sam rolls his eyes and sits back down on the bed. "What else is new?"

+


	6. Chapter 6

 

**sin is sin**

* * *

 

v.

 

It doesn't kill him, but it hurts like fucking Hell, and Sam would know. It's not the first time Cas has done this to him, but the last time he hadn't had a soul Castiel leached off energy like a redneck siphoning gas out of an unguarded pickup truck. Sam tries to shift and winces, eyes pinching beneath his forearm. He's content to stay like that, and possibly take another nap, until he feels his phone buzz in his pocket.

_This the sort of weird you're looking for?_

Sam clicks the file Jody attached to the text. It's a coroner's report, dated two days ago. Sam scrolls down the PDF until he gets to the cause of death: undetermined. Best guess is a combination of exsanguination and shock.

She sends the Coast Guard and local PD reports next, and Sam mutters "Christ," and hands the phone off to Castiel.

"This certainly would qualify," Castiel says. He doesn't even wince, just hands the phone back like he didn't just read a detailed account of what the police summarized as 'vivisection'. "How're you feeling?"

Sam winces at the memory of pain, but mostly he feels alright. A bit more tired than he was an hour ago. Then again, an hour ago he felt like he'd been hit by a truck with _sleep deprivation_ painted on the side. "Okay. Really, I'm — " he huffs a laugh, " — just kinda hungry, actually."

"I can assist with that," Cas says, and starts to stand.

"Hey, whoa. Just 'cause you topped off your tank doesn't mean you need to waste it on a burger run."

Castiel gives him a withering look. "I was going to drive," he explains, and jingles the keys in his hand in explanation. "I will need some money, though."

Sam hands him a few bills and lets him go. There's at least six fast food joints in a three-block radius, so he's not worried about Cas getting lost. "Hey," he calls, before Cas closes the door. "You're coming back, right?"

Castiel squints at him. "Yes, Sam, I am coming back. With food," he adds.

"Okay," Sam says. "And uh," he jerks his head towards the bathroom, where the shower's still running, "get her something too."

Cas nods and closes the door, and Sam stretches back out on the bed. Krissy wasn't exactly thrilled to see him, and was just straight up suspicious about Castiel, but at least she's on her feet. He closes his eyes with the intent of just resting them, and doesn't realize he's dozed off until he hears the bathroom door close.

When he opens his eyes, Krissy's hair is damp, and the spare flannel they loaned her comes down to her thighs. She's wearing her old jeans, but at least the shirt is long enough to cover most of the bloodstains. "Where'd your angel go?"

"He's not mine," Sam says, and rubs at his eyes as he sits up. "How do you feel?"

"You mean aside from the fact that your brother killed my friends and carved me up like a pot roast?" Sam winces. "I'm great, Sam. How was your nap?"

Sam tries not to take it personally. "I'm sorry about what happened  — "

"Don't," Krissy says. She takes a seat in the chair by the desk, and starts pulling on her socks. "I don't need your apologies."

"I'm not defending him, but he's not — "

"I said _don't_!" Krissy snaps. "I don't wanna — "

Her head whips around as the doorknob jiggles and Cas opens the door. Sam must have been asleep longer than he thought. Cas is holding two bags with _Whataburger_ logos, and glances from her to Sam. "Am I interrupting?"

"No," Krissy says. She eyes Castiel as he approaches, but takes the proffered bag of food. Sam takes the other, nodding his thanks. "So," Krissy says, mouth full of burger, "what's the plan?"

"The plan is we get you a fresh ride," Sam says, picking at his fries, "and you drive northwest until you run out of gas."

"The _hell_ I am."

"Stay here, then. I don't care. You're not coming with us."

"The hell I'm not! He — "

"And you think he won't finish the job if you show up again?" Sam asks, forcing himself to swallow. The food tastes like warm cardboard, but he knows he needs the calories. "This isn't up for discussion. We don't have time to look after you _and_ try to catch Dean — "

" _Catch him?_ " Krissy drops her half-eaten burger on the desk. "He's a demon, Sam. It's not him, it's just some smoke riding his hide. He's already dead."

Sam doesn't correct her, because there's too much to tell and he doesn't think it will make a difference. "Either way, we can't babysit you and — "

"You got him," Krissy says, and jabs a finger at Cas. "Angel trumps demon, right?" She looks at Castiel. "You're with me, right? We find him, you smite him, then we all go out for ice cream."

"It may not be that — " Cas begins.

"Nobody is smiting anybody," Sam says, glaring at Cas. Cas glares right back. Sam gives up and looks back at Krissy. "It's complicated, okay?"

"Complicated? No, Sam, it isn't. He killed my _friends_ , Sam. My _family_."

"I know, and I'm sorry — "

"Stop saying you're sorry!" Krissy is on her feet, hands clenched at her sides. "I know he was your brother, but I don't _care_. I got nothing else to lose. I'm going to kill him, or die trying."

"No, you aren't, because you're not coming."

"I'd like to see you try and stop me."

Sam starts to sit up, and immediately halts when Krissy pulls a gun on him. _His_ gun. He glances at the bedside table where he'd left it, and sighs. Dammit.

Krissy smirks. "That's what you get for sleeping on the job."

Sam glances at Castiel. "You wanna help me out, here?"

Cas shrugs. "I actually agree with her."

"What? She can't — "

"She's right," Cas interrupts. "He isn't your brother anymore. And thinking like that will likely just get you killed. We could also use the backup."

"She's a kid!"

"I'm _eighteen_ ," Krissy says. She still has the .45 leveled at Sam's chest.

"Do you mind like, not pointing that at me?" Sam asks.

"I do mind, actually." She glances at Cas. "I've been hunting on my own for three years. And I grew up in the life. I can help."

"No fucking way," Sam says. "Dean already almost killed you. If he sees you again — "

"It'll be the last thing he sees," Krissy says, deadly calm.

Before Sam can answer that, his phone rings. He glares at them both in turn while he digs it out of his pocket because this conversation is _far_ from over. "What?" he snaps into the receiver.

"Hello to you, too. Bad time?"

"Jody, hey," Sam says. "Sorry. I got the reports — "

"Turn on the TV," Jody interrupts.

Sam does, ignoring the questioning look from Castiel and Krissy following his movements with the gun barrel, and flips through the channels until he gets to a national news network. _CLUB SHOOTOUT ATTRIBUTED TO GANG VIOLENCE_ is printed on the banner below the news anchor, followed by a scroll that reads _Six fatalities, dozens injured, in late night Miami club shooting_.

"Not three days after Coast Guard found that guy on the boat," Jody says in his ear. "Or what was left of him."

"I dunno, I mean," Sam tries to think of what motivation Dean would have for slaughtering a bunch of partying gangbangers, and fails. "It could just be, y'know, normal crazy? Right?"

"Yeah, right," Krissy says from across the room. She lowers the gun, but doesn't put it down.

Sam doesn't answer, because Jody's still talking in his ear. "What the news isn't telling you is that only one victim died of gunshot wounds," she explains, and Sam feels his blood run cold. "Most of it was blunt force trauma, but there was also a slit throat and a stab wound. A friend at dispatch just CC'd me the onsite report."

Sam scrubs a hand over his face. "All right. We're close. Had to stop to — it's a long story," he says, and hears Jody's tired _uh-huh_ on the other end of the line mirrored indignantly by Krissy behind him. "I promise, I'll explain everything as soon as I can."

"Is Dean all right?" Jody asks.

This is the problem with cops, always asking direct questions nobody wants to answer.

"Dean's gonna be fine," Sam says, and has to believe it. "I'll call you when we find him."

"You better," Jody says. "And you better make time to explain soon, or I'm gonna come down there and handcuff you to a chair until you do."

+

Bela's drumming her fingers along the hood of the car when Crowley arrives, acrylic nails clicking against the clearcoat with the intent to irritate.

It works. "Lost him already, have you?"

"I haven't _lost him_ ," she snaps, folding her arms over her chest. "You're the one who told him to take a vacation."

Crowley glances at his surroundings and shrugs. "Not really my style, but nobody ever said he wasn't superficial."

"It was only a matter of time before he got tired of fucking every tart in this city and decided killing them is more fun." She opens the door to the building and follows him inside, keeping pace at his shoulder. "The locals are already on high alert after the mess he left in Allapattah."

Crowley admits she has a point, but that doesn't mean he'll acknowledge it. Dean's too fresh and likely too high on whatever power the mark provides to bother keeping a low profile, and this whole charade only works if people aren't being telepathically ripped to shreds in public.

Not that there's anything wrong with that, but there's a time and place.

Crowley is honestly surprised she didn't call for backup sooner. Dean's easy enough to manipulate if one knows which buttons to press, but his primal distrust of _everything_ makes him unpredictable. Dean's a loose missile without guidance, and it's only a matter of time before his radar locks onto something.

Then there's Moose and that pesky, wayward angel that follows them everywhere, and with every day that Dean stays in one place they're inevitably getting closer. Dean's more likely to kill them than be taken alive, but Crowley hasn't survived this long by underestimating the Winchesters. Not least of all Castiel, who seems to have more lives than a bloody cat, so he'd rather not take any chances. It's not like he's indulging this new version of Dean for fun.

Well, not _only_ for fun.

"No wonder he's bored." Crowley gesticulates at the lackluster surroundings — the sticky floor, the run down bar, the plain lack of variety in the clientele — and sighs when Bela just shrugs. He's pretty sure she was more clever as a human, and probably would have been more useful. Oh well. No use crying over tortured souls and whatnot. "I thought I was pretty clear on what you needed to do."

"He does whatever the fuck he wants," Bela huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. "And whomever. It's not like he asks for permission."

"That's because you seem to lack an important fundamental that made you such an effective mortal."

"A hotter meatsuit?" she snaps, rolling her eyes.

"Well, that couldn't hurt," Crowley agrees. "But more importantly..." He sweeps the crowd with his eyes, searching, and smiles when he finds Dean splayed in one of the booths adjacent to the dance floor, idly drinking a beer. "The power of suggestion, darling."

Dean feels him coming. He places the beer on the table and turns so his legs splay out of the booth, wide open in invitation. Dean's eyes dart past his shoulder, where Bela is hovering, and smiles. "Went crying to daddy already, huh?"

"Bite me, Winchester."

Dean wrinkles his nose. "Dunno, I don't wanna catch anything."

"You — "

"Children." Crowley does not have time for this, not if there's going to be anything left of Hell worth ruling. He glances back at Bela. "Make yourself useful and take the car. Book us a suite at the Ritz down the road. Don't," he adds, as her mouth opens, "ask questions. Just do as you're told."

Bela purses her lips but mercifully leaves without another word, and when Crowley turns back to Dean, he's sizing Crowley up like he's a meal. "You've got her well-trained."

"Not well enough, it would seem." Crowley eyes the empty beer bottle, then jerks his head towards the bar. "Buy you a drink?"

Dean licks his lips, thens shrugs. "Sure, why not?"

_Whip, whip, run me like a racehorse. Pull me like a ripcord. Break me down and build me up..._

The pulse of the music across the dance floor is deafening. Crowley can feel the sound waves roll through his vessel, and churn the smoke beneath it. He flags down a bartender and orders two scotches and watches Dean tip his head back, neck flexing as he swallows. Watches the shadow beneath it, swirling in curiosity, flexing as it explores its environment. Most of it focuses on him, and that's a good start.

"You ever gonna tell me what your endgame is, or do I have to guess," Dean says, leaving his empty glass on the bar.

"Really need to work on those trust issues," Crowley says, and takes the time to savor the drink. It's not Craig, but it's better than the swill they were serving in Kansas. "I thought we were friends."

"I don't trust anybody, not even my friends. And being buddies with me isn't the smartest play, considering the average lifespan."

"That's what you get, hanging out with mortals." Crowley finishes his whiskey, watches Dean's eyes float across the room, skipping right over the inviting looks being cast his way by men and women alike. "Frail, short lifespans, _morals_." Crowley suppresses a shudder. "Messy things. Easy enough to manipulate, fun to play with, but ultimately? More trouble than they're worth."

An attractive woman slides right past Dean on her way to the bar, a boudoir smile plastered on her face. Dean watches her go, and grins. "Oh, I dunno. They have their uses."

Old habits die hard. Crowley sees the potential there, but maybe Dean needs less of a light touch and more of a shove in the right direction. Habits have a nasty way of anchoring themselves to memories better off forgotten. "That they do. Ones you haven't even begun to explore."

Dean's gaze snaps back to him, like a compass needle finding north. "Really," he says, and it's no wonder he's gotten bored. If Dean's been eyeballing his targets like that, it's no small wonder he's gotten everything he set his sights on. "And what d'you have in mind?"

Crowley can see the intent there, and resists the urge to smile. It's too easy. "Don't be presumptuous. You haven't earned _me_." It doesn't seem to discourage Dean, eyes darkening at the challenge. "But that isn't to say you haven't earned something," Crowley continues with a smirk as he slips past.

Dean follows him like a dog on a lead and Crowley does a cursory sweep of the crowd of souls. There's a pair at the end of the bar that's promising. Insofar that Dean has a type, they fit the bill. Tall, fit, dark hair. Old enough they've filled out. Light eyes a bonus. They're perfect, assuming they're willing.

If there's one thing Crowley knows how to do without fail, it's seal a deal.

Blue-eyes looks up as Crowley approaches and plants himself between them, and cuts right to the chase. "You boys wanna have some fun?"

They look him over, and granted, a younger vessel with a full head of hair would help, but Crowley has an ace up his sleeve; the moment the taller of the two sees Dean is with him, Crowley watches his pupils dilate. He glances at his companion, who now has his eyes glued to Dean.

Without looking away from Dean, Blue-eyes says, "Yeah, okay."

No names are exchanged, and they don't question Bela's presence when she provides them with a keycard in the lobby, nor when she follows them into the elevator and into the room. It's certainly a step-up from the shitholes the brothers usually occupy, and Crowley makes himself comfortable in one of the plush chairs facing the king-sized bed. Bela takes the other, crossing her legs and arms.

Blue-eyes is pulling at Dean's clothes like he's on a mission, and Crowley can't blame him. As far as vessels go, that one is worth waging _wars_ for.

His companion drops his shirt on the floor and moves towards Crowley, but Crowley waves him away. "Don't mind me," he assures the man. "I like to watch."

The guy shrugs. "Suit yourself, man."

He glances at Bela briefly, but seems to decide the audience is a small price to pay for the prize; he joins his companion, who already has Dean down to his jeans and is on his knees, working the clasp of his belt. Dean has a hand fisted in his hair, urging him on, and leans back against the other as he slides up behind him, hands sliding around his waist to assist. It pulls a low, long sound out of Dean that has Bela shifting in her seat.

"So is this part of your master plan?" Bela's eyes haven't left the three of them since they entered the room and started stripping Dean down. It's a testament to Dean, that after all the agony he put her through she still lusts for him. "Run him like some kind of a pimp?"

"Jealousy becomes you," Crowley informs her, turning his attention back to the show. Four hands are roaming over Dean's now-naked form, chest to thighs, back to front, and Dean arches between them. It's beautiful to witness. Even more beautiful to listen to, the rustle and wet slide of hands and mouths on skin lost under every uninhibited sound crawling out of Dean's throat. "Perhaps if you'd been less of a slag for the _haut monde_ , he'd be more inclined to stick you with something other than a blade."

Bela shifts in her seat again. Crowley thinks it has less to do with his words than the mouths Dean's getting intimately acquainted with at both ends on the bed. "I just don't see how whoring him out is going to achieve whatever madness it is you've got planned."

"You need to see the big picture, darling. Sin is sin. Besides," and Crowley pauses as Dean curses, and is treated to the image of his hips lifting off the bed and into the mouth working on him, "what's the point of raising Hell if we can't enjoy ourselves?"

Bela sinks down into her seat and recrosses her legs. "Some of us are enjoying this more than others."

Her sulking isn't enough to ruin the mood; Blue-eyes has his hand between Dean's legs, matching the pace of his companion, who's found a much better use for Dean's mouth than spouting off obscenities.

They're taking their time, extra hands wandering, caressing whatever they can reach and after a time, now Dean has himself in hand, strokes lazy and slow. Crowley watches greedily, despairs that Dean used to deny himself this due to some misplaced concept of shame. Perdition suits him. Sure, Hell's no picnic, but for all its faults, damnation has its benefits.

All the free labor he could ever need. Good music. Even better weather. Breaking the righteous one. Desecrating the divine vessel. Watching Dean Winchester get wantonly fucked from both ends.

Crowley has the best job in all of Creation.

The man between Dean's legs must get the angle right; Dean arcs off the bed and hits a decibel Crowley wasn't aware he was capable of. He pulls his hand away, and gestures to his companion to take his place. He moves to Dean's head, but doesn't immediately make use of his mouth, allowing them enjoy the sounds he's making. He watches his companion with hungry blue eyes, eagerly awaiting his turn.

"You're so hot," Blue-eyes tells him, and runs a hand up Dean's chest. He cups Dean's chin and forces his head back, drags a thumb down his cheek, along his bottom lip. He tilts Dean's head to the side; Dean lets him and opens his mouth, lashes dark against his cheek.

They're just a tangle of limbs now, one at either end of Dean, simultaneously making use of both orifices he has to offer. His companion finishes too quickly, pulling back to make a mess all over Dean's chest before sitting back on his heels, still a little dazed. Smiling, Blue-eyes pulls back and crawls down the bed, slips between Dean's legs and slides home with a beautiful little off-key moan. Dean groans and grinds back, lets his hands be lifted off his cock and above his head. Lets this stranger thrust slowly into him, the wet slap of their connecting hips interrupting the soft sounds coming out of Dean's mouth.

Dean's head is hanging off the end of bed when Crowley comes over and gently cradles it in support. The back of his neck and his hair are soaked in sweat, and when Dean looks at Crowley, his are eyes lust-blown but still too clear. Crowley scowls at the man on his other end. "Surely, you can fuck him harder than that?"

The man takes Dean by the hips and pulls Dean up, fixes his angle and drives in hard. Dean's back bows, throwing his head back and exposing his throat, and makes the most divine noise Crowley's ever heard.

"Better." Crowley cradles the back of Dean's head, holds him up as the stranger sets a brutal pace, the wet noises of coitus lost under Dean's litany of curses. "There you go," Crowley tells him, as Dean's eyes roll back, watches them turn black as the pleasure takes hold, eclipses everything else. "That's it, just focus on that, focus on how it _feels_ , Dean. That's all that matters, in the end."

The man using him isn't far behind, but Crowley hardly notices, barely spares him a glance as he sits back, spent. "You can show yourselves out," Crowley tells him, and feels the bed shift through Dean as they get up to gather their clothes. When the door opens, he catches Bela's eye and jerks his head after them. Little do they know, Crowley has a special surprise awaiting both of them in the pit.

It's what they deserve, thinking they could have this without a price.

There's so much more Dean can become, if he can truly let that old part of himself go. The part that cares to a damn fault, that shoulders the blame for every injustice he doesn't have the power to stop and every wrong he can't right. The part crippled by guilt and shame, stupid notions of what's right and wrong and _acceptable_. Crowley will peel it all away, one layer at a time, until the only memories of humanity he has are echoes.

Dean sighs, body going lax against the bed. His eyes are human again, glazed with lust, utterly unconcerned with the state he's in, naked and debauched on the bed.

Crowley smiles down at him, traces Dean's swollen bottom lip with his thumb. "Oh, darling. If only you could see you now."

+

By the time they track down the car, Dean's moved on from Miami into Ft Lauderdale. It's not a common model, old as it is, and Sam's sheriff friend continued to send them updates from the local traffic cams. The car is dusty, mud spattered behind the wheel wells and along the door panels. There's a few red markings that look like sigils painted across the trunk lid. Castiel scans the street, searching among the souls for darkness. Beside him, Sam sips his coffee and scans their faces and behind him, Krissy shifts impatiently, flicking her pocket knife open and closed with quiet little _snicks_.

"Maybe he ditched the car," Krissy says.

Sam yawns and arches his back; Castiel hears something along his spine pop. "I doubt it."

"He's not Dean anymore," Krissy points out. "I doubt he cares about the stupid car."

"She is probably correct," Castiel adds, "if the state of it is any indication. He took it out of necessity. He no longer needs it."

"He drove it here even after he got the blade, didn't he?" Sam snaps, and Castiel gives up. Arguing about it makes no difference. Assuming Dean is responsible for the violence on the news as well as that in the harbor, he's been in this area for almost a week — there's a chance he has not left yet, and Sam had pointed out that if the car had been parked for more than a day, it likely would have been towed. Unfortunately, there was no surveillance available to see who had been driving it or left it here, and it's their best lead. The city is too large to search. "Can you see _anything_ nearby?"

Castiel looks again, taking the time to check windows of the buildings at the intersection. "Not right now. But that doesn't meant there isn't anyone watching."

"All right," Sam sits up, and reaches for the door handle. "You guys wait here. I'm gonna take a look."

"Sam — "

"Hey, I'm — "

" _Both_ of you," Sam reiterates, glancing at Castiel and Krissy in turn. "Unless something jumps me, keep your asses in your seats." He opens the door, then looks back and holds out a hand to Krissy. "Can I have my gun back?"

Krissy glares at him, but hands it over. They don't have time to take her anywhere else, and she knows it. "You got anything else I can use?"

Sam leans under the seat, and gives her the sawed-off shotgun Castiel had been using when he was human. He no longer needs it. Krissy checks to make sure it is loaded with salt rounds. "There's extra shells in the glove box," Sam says, and then steps out into the street.

They watch him go, Castiel with trepidation and Krissy with a blistering indignation so strong that it makes Castiel wince.

"He won't do it, you know," Krissy says, as soon as Sam is out of earshot. "He'll get himself — and both of us — killed before he does what needs to be done."

"Probably," Castiel agrees. For all Sam's talk this past year about being over their lifestyle, for all the hurtful things he said to Dean that drove Dean down the path he is on now, Castiel knows this much as true. Sam could never do the deed himself, not after everything the brothers have been through — not after everything Dean had sacrificed for him. "But all of it is immaterial until we find him."

"Or _we_ could go find him," she goes on, as Sam gets to the other side of the intersection and very casually tries the driver-side door. It's open. "Just me and you."

Castiel watches as Sam slips into the driver's seat and pops the trunk. "We have a better chance of locating him with Sam."

This much is true, though Castiel sees her point. Sam complicates matters, both for them and for Dean. He will be distracting, but likely just an easy target. Castiel can use that, but prefers not to. He's grown fond of Sam, despite his many failings, and the thought of what Dean's human soul would think of Castiel using his little brother as demon bait makes Castiel cringe.

"We have a better chance of all getting _killed_ with Sam, too," Krissy grumbles from the backseat. She leans forward, elbows dangling over the back of the seat. The gun looks very large in her small hands. "You can do it, right?" she asks, eyes finding Castiel's. "I mean, like, you guys smite demons all the time."

Castiel looks away to where Sam has the trunk of the car open, displaying the angel warding painted on the hood in red paint. The chances that Dean left the blade in the car are slim to none, especially if it was left unlocked. "I don't know," Castiel admits. Sam had more-or-less filled Krissy in on the details along the drive, mostly because she wouldn't stop asking until he did. "The mark complicates things. I am also not at full strength. He may very well just kill me."

"Won't know until we try," she says. She's watching Sam too, now, rummaging around in the trunk. "We got about two minutes to make a decision."

Castiel considers it — she is highly motivated, but she is also impulsive and emotional. Whenever Sam mentioned her friends, her voice wavered and moisture built up around the bottom of her eyes, threatening to spill over. He does not doubt her competence, only her ability to be objective. Sam has the same issue, but for an entirely different reason.

Sam is still by the Impala; the trunk is closed, and he's in the driver's seat, digging around in the glove compartment. Likely turning on the GPS in one of the phones they keep inside. It's smart; if Dean does come back for the car, it will make it easier to track him.

 _If_ Dean comes back for it.

"You in there, Spock?" Krissy pokes him with the stock of the shotgun. "Clock's a'tickin'."

"Stay with Sam," Castiel decides, opening the passenger door and climbing out.

"The _hell_ with that," Krissy mutters, and hurries after him.

+

Dean exits the bathroom dry and naked. The room is empty, but there are folded clothes on the end of the bed. When he bends to retrieve them, he's assaulted with the lingering scent of sex and sweat. He breathes it in for a while, and wonders why in the hell he ever stopped sleeping with men. When he tries to remember, there's nothing but fog there, thick and unrelenting against his curious prods.

He pulls on the black jeans and t-shirt, shifts the leather jacket around his shoulders. The all-glass french doors to the balcony are thrown wide, the acrid odor of smoke wipes his palate clean of anything else.

Crowley's lounging on a wicker chaise, cigar poised between his lips. His eyes crawl over Dean, bottom to top, and he plucks the cigar from his lips. "Feel better?"

He does. It's not the same calm that follows a kill, but he feels _loose_. Sated. Relaxed. Happy, maybe, but it's been a long time since he's felt happy about anything, and Dean isn't sure he can recognise the feeling any longer. "I thought you just tortured your friends for fun."

"Well, I could drum something up if you're into knifeplay," Crowley says, offering him a cigar. Dean takes it, and bends to accept the light. "Though you seem more the type to enjoy giving rather than receiving."

That's fair, but the only pleasure Dean gets out of cutting is a vindictive sort of revenge. He'd already disposed of Walt, and most of the others he'd like to subject it to are already dead. Then again... "Unless you've got Metatron stashed somewhere quiet, I'll pass."

"Oh, I'm sure the new heavenly order is already finding new and imaginative uses for his halo as we speak."

His voice is slow and seductive. Dean shifts his weight and feels the warm edge of the blade dig into the small of his back, tucked into his waistband. "Speaking of the new heavenly order," Dean inhales, holds his breath and rolls the smoke around his mouth. There's no burn, no need to exhale, and he takes his time, categorizes the taste. He breathes out slow, watches the smoke curl before his eyes, and wonders if that's what he looks like, now. "You did lie.  About the spell being irreversible."

Crowley leans back in his seat, a hand to his chest and eyes wide with exasperated offence. "I've _never_ lied to you."

"Right," Dean says. A memory of a whisper scratches at the edge of his thoughts: _I never lied, Dean. That's fundamental._ "You just avoided certain truths to manipulate me."

"Well," Crowley smirks around his cigar, "touché. Though, wings or not, all's not well upstairs. The pearly gates are still closed for business, but word on the wire is they've found themselves a backdoor to the penthouse."

Dean squints at him. "Word on the wire, huh? You tapping Angel Radio now?"

"As if you wouldn't."

" _I_ can't speak Enochian," Dean says, and Crowley smiles — that special smile he saves for when he knows something Dean doesn't — and Dean narrows his eyes. "And some asshole killed our pocket prophet, so it wouldn't do me any good. What the hell are you smirking about?"

Crowley shrugs. "That's a conversation for later. Provided you accept my proposal."

"Yeah, okay," Dean says, ashes the cigar and takes another draw. The day has come and gone, the blue canvas overhead bleeding the purple, pink and orange that reflects off the windows of the buildings around them. The ocean is dark, a black oasis, and the brightest stars are visible along the navy horizon. When Dean looks a little harder he can see the rest twinkle into view, the faint dust of the galactic spiral beyond the light pollution of the city. "I gotta tell you, Crowley, you get down on one knee and offer me Queen of Hell, I might just accept."

"You'd look great in a dress, darling."

Dean switches his gaze to the ebb and flow of pedestrians below, herds of people leaving the beach in the twilight, streets a constant flow of headlights from the traffic. The cool breeze off the ocean smells strongly of salt, and pricks at the corners of his eyes. "I don't want to be another one of your dogs."

"And, pray tell, what _do_ you want?" Crowley asks. "Do you even know?"

Dean thinks about it. He watches the skin of the cigar burn as he inhales deep, thick smoke flowing in to fill his lungs. What would've choked him as a human he now barely feels at all. He lets the smoke out from his nostrils with a slight smile. The brick building across the intersection is busy, a constant stream of people (mostly men) coming and going. The windows are blacked out, but when Dean reaches out he can feel the deep pulse of dance music, feel the warmth of dozens of souls inside. It looks the same, aside from the plain black sign above the door, all caps in silver spelling out the word PURGATORY _._ Then again, the last time he had been here, being gay hadn't been in vogue.

Crowley is still waiting, uncharacteristically patient. "Freedom," Dean decides.

Crowley hums, whether in agreement or contemplation, Dean can't decipher. "To be truly free, you need to be free of who you were. Free from the things that held you back."

"You're talking about Sam." Dean takes another puff. "Sam's an adult, he can take care of himself. And Cas — well, Cas ain't gonna be around much longer."

Crowley raises an eyebrow. "And how does that make you feel?"

Dean isn't sure, exactly. He could see it happening when he was human, and now he's seen it with his own eyes. Dean should have killed him, back at the bunker, if only out of mercy. There's no honor in dying from what amounts to a bad gutshot. He thinks about the times Cas has died before, and shuffles through the memories. There's gaps, here and there, of things that he either can't remember or can't make sense of, and it's unsettling.

Crowley waits and watches, dark eyes careful.

Dean shrugs. "Not much of anything, tell ya' the truth."

"You know, freedom — true freedom — is just another form of power," Crowley says after a moment. "And power, I can give you."

Dean's pretty sure he can take whatever he needs, whether Crowley likes it or not. The moment he laid hands on the blade, he knew — nothing would stop him, not really. Not in any way that matters. Come what may, the mark would endure.

But Dean has felt the cold itch of monotony creeping along his skin, and Crowley is a lot of things, but _boring_ isn't one of them. "And what's it gonna cost me?"

Dean can see the flash of red smoke curling, seductive, under skin. "I just need you to run an errand."

The last time he worked for Crowley was under duress and, at the time, he’d wanted nothing more than to kill the bastard. He could do it now, and could do it without the blade. Cain could, and he’d already dispensed angels with a touch. Crowley might have enough juice to put up a fight, but Dean knows, down to the mark on his forearm, that he would succeed.

"I'll think about it."

"You do that," Crowley says, and smiles like he's gotten his way. "In the meantime, there's a few things I can show you."

"Paying before goods are delivered?" Dean scoffs, and ashes the cigar. "That's unlike you."

"Call it a gesture of goodwill."

"I call it a gesture of bullshit." He stubs the cigar and sits up, and balances his arms over his knees as he meets Crowley's gaze. "Give me one good reason I should trust you."

Crowley's smile makes him feel like he just walked right into whatever trap the bastard set, but Dean really doesn't expect any less. It's almost fun, this game they play, fun like he hasn't had in a very long time. "You up for a little field trip?"

Dean glances across the street, thinks about blue eyes and dark hair and sun-kissed skin. "Not quite yet."

+

+

The outside of the Impala is trashed, dusty and scraped and done no favors by the Enochian ward spray-painted on the trunk. If Sam needed any more convincing that Dean isn't himself, this would be enough. But Dean hadn't killed him. He could have, could've killed him and Castiel both back at the bunker. He didn't. That's all the evidence Sam needs that there's still some part of his brother left to save.

The blade isn't inside the trunk with the rest of the weapons, which aside from missing Dean's favorite .45 and an angel blade, looks otherwise intact. The inside of the car is worse, full of discarded shreds of bloody clothes, and smells like a morgue.

It'd be too easy, if Dean left it here; he must have it on him, or more likely, stashed it somewhere else entirely. Whatever, they'll deal with it. He might be demonic and half-crazed but he's still _Dean_ , and Sam knows him better than anybody. Hell, Cas probably knows him just as well, maybe better. They'll figure it out. They just have to _find him_.

Sam isn't sure if he'll come back; if the condition of the car is any indication, Dean doesn't care about her like he used to — but demons are creatures of habit and hell, _so is Dean_ , so it only makes sense. He had to take the car the first time, because it had the blade inside. He didn't have to keep it, but he brought it this far. That's something.

He puts the phone he activated on silent, and buries it inside the empty spot next to the steering column Dean uses for emergency cash. He puts the rest of the phones back in the glovebox. This way he doesn't have to babysit the car waiting for Dean to come back — if he does, Sam'll be able to track him down to a couple block radius.

Sam's about to open the door when the radio gurgles. He pauses, fingers tightening on the handle. The lights on the dash flicker on, needles on the fuel gauge, odometer and RPM dial jumping, and the radio hisses on again, the drone the guitar eerily familiar, and Sam feels his blood run cold.

_A look from you and I would fall from grace, and that would wipe the smile right from my face..._

"The actual fuck."

Sam hears the words, knows he must have said them, but they sound a long way off. The volume increases and _it was the heat of the moment_ roars out of the speakers like a challenge. Sam leans down to turn the damn thing off because seriously, what the _fuck_ , and ducks just in time for the bullet to miss his head and hit the windshield.

" _Shit_." The hair-band rock is still blasting as Sam flattens himself along the front seat, gun already in hand. People on the sidewalk and cars in the street roll by, apparently oblivious to the fact that someone just opened fire on a busy city block.

Sam chances a peek over the back of the seat, and ducks back down just in time. Two more shots follow in short order, and one hits the dashboard, and the radio blissfully sputters out. Someone outside on the sidewalk screams.

He grips blindly behind him, gets the passenger-side door open and rolls out onto the road, ignoring the angry blare of horn as an oncoming car swerves to avoid him. Sam stays crouched behind the Impala, and has the brief thought of what Dean's gonna do when he sees the bullet holes, before he remembers that Dean won't care.

It's probably Dean shooting them.

Sam glances back at the gold Continental, wondering where the fuck Cas is, and sees the car sitting empty. "Son of a _bitch_ ," Sam bites out.

Okay. It's not like he's never been in this situation before. And if he shoots Dean, it's not like it'll actually hurt him. Not now. But there's people out here, some of them are running and probably calling the cops, but some of them are carrying on blissfully unaware with their headphones and distractions, and if Sam shoots blind he could accidentally kill somebody.

Another couple of shots ring out, and Sam covers his head as the windows above him shatter. Whoever is shooting has no such holdups.

Sam holsters the gun because it's not going to do him any good, wishing like hell he had the knife. He pulls out the demon cuffs they brought instead, and thinks a quick prayer that the spellwork etched into the metal is enough. He tries counts the number of shots fired — standard mags carry anywhere from 12 to 15 rounds, and assuming they started off full, whoever's shooting has more than enough left to put a couple of holes in him.

He rolls behind the adjacent SUV parked behind the Impala and moves along it quickly, peeking around the back to try and find the source. There's an alleyway splitting the block in half, leaving a break between the SUV and the car parked behind it, and it's too dark to see, but Sam waits and listens, hears the echo of another three shots among the alarmed shouts of pedestrians and the distant trill of sirens.

There's a pause in the firing and Sam pulls back almost too late, crouching below the windows and wincing as glass rains down over him, tempered shards getting caught in his hair. Over the ringing in his ears, he hears the distinctly loud _click_ of an empty chamber, and is moving before he even thinks about it.

Sam thinks the element of surprise is the only reason he gets close before she notices him. Her eyes slide black as she spots him, lips pulling back in a snarl. She drops the gun just as he snaps a cuff over her wrist; when she waves her other hand, and nothing happens. Sam punches her in the face just because he can.

" _Wanker_ ," she spits, jerking at the cuff around her right wrist and wiping at her mouth with the other. "That is _no way_ to treat a lady."

+

"Here?" Krissy stares at sign and the patrons milling around outside, then back at Castiel. "Uh, you know he's not, um." She looks confused for a moment, then squints at Castiel. "Is he? I mean, I guess — seriously?"

"I doubt he'd be able to resist the irony," Castiel explains, but it's possible she's unaware of Dean and his stint in Purgatory. "You should stay out here. You would stand out."

"It's a gay bar, not a gentleman's club. Women can be gay, too."

"You are underage," Castiel points out. The establishment sells liquor, and Castiel has spent enough time with humanity to know the man at the door is checking identification — and while a hunter always has a fake ID handy, her looks betray her youth. "You can watch the perimeter."

Castiel doesn't wait for an answer, and ignores the indignant remark " _The front door isn't the only way in!_ " as he steps past the man guarding the door. He gives Castiel a cursory glance and nods, waving him inside.

It's a kaleidoscope of darkness and bright colors inside, lights flashing red and purple and pink overhead. A large dance floor makes up most of the main floor, bordered by a long bar on one side and a cluster of pool tables on the other. Most of the clientele are topless, and what little clothing is worn is tight and revealing, bodies pressed close together and weaving with the music.

He looks closer, and is nearly blinded by the brightness of the souls. So many, so close together — this metropolitan area is full of these establishments, packed tight with temptation. It's no small wonder Dean found this place and stayed, with so much light to twist into darkness.

A light shiver runs along his peripheral vision and Castiel turns, searching. Souls and their vessels blur together as they dance, limbs entwined as they shift around Castiel. The energy in the room shifts and turns as a whisper of something sinister skirts past his senses. He knows he's in the right place, but Castiel will never find him like this, surrounded by this cloud of spirits.

He moves away from the crowd, trusting his shadow to follow. The bodies thin as he moves past the bar towards the dark hallway that runs along the back. Two women are occupied along the wall, oblivious to anything but each other. There's a door at the end marked as an exit, and two along the hall. Castiel glances over his shoulder, wary of the sudden absence of presence there, and slips inside.

The restroom has six urinals, two sinks, and four black stalls in the back, two-by-two facing each other. The walls are mold-green and adorned with writing, vulgar doodles and graffiti tags and poems in black marker, illuminated by the stark, fluorescent lights. The air is rancid with the scent of urine laced with something sharper, something that makes his vessel instinctively wince and wrinkle its nose.

A man is washing his hands at the sink. He glances at Castiel as he passes, eyes sliding up and down Castiel's torso, but doesn't speak when Castiel looks away. The dissonance of the club invades the space as the stranger opens the door behind him, an ominous voice droning out _sweet dreams are made of this_ before it fades to the quiet pulse of bass as the door swings closed again.

Castiel closes his eyes and reaches out, but feels no other souls in the room. He approaches the stalls. The doors open with a glance, revealing toilets in questionable states of cleanliness. Castiel starts to turn away and continue his search.

The overhead lights flicker once, twice.

Castiel pauses and crouches down. The tile is sticky beneath his shoes, and there's black mold along the crease where the wall meets the floor. Between the stall divides, there is a thick dusting of pale yellow-green powder.

Outside, beyond the building, clouds roll in and static builds as lightning arcs from the ground towards the heavens. The lights begin to flicker harshly as door behind him opens. The dulcet tones of the music drifts in again as Castiel turns around, and the lights go out.

The bright pink and purple lights of the club silhouette the figure in the doorway. Castiel does not need to see his face; he sees the true darkness beyond the skin, smoke roiling like a tornado trapped deep inside the pit of a black hole.

The tornado begins to grow and take shape, filling the square head and long canines, stretching high off the back to form even longer, twisted horns. The body elongates, clawed talons in the front, hooves in the rear, and braiding together at the end to form a long, fanged tail. Twin clouds bloom and flourish along its back, forming bat-like wings.

The creature behind the vessel meets his eyes, and snarls.

Castiel stands up, slowly, and borrowed wings rising behind him like hackles. The monster fades as quickly as it shimmered into existence, ghostly wings sweeping once and dissipating into the air. The pulsing red mark on its head shifts and shrinks, weighing down one arm. Something solid weighs down the other, gripped tight in a fist.

It's worse than Castiel feared, if the demon is already beginning to take form. He keeps his hands at his sides, and meets the invisible gaze across the threshold.

"Hello, Dean."

Dean doesn't answer. He steps into the room and Castiel can see his features now, silver shadows in the dark flashing like a school of fish in the deep sea. Castiel lets him come, doesn't move as Dean pauses with two steps left between them. Cold, green eyes sweep slowly over Castiel, and Castiel recognizes the path they take — the long flush down his body and back up, rising like the tide and filling every crevice along the way with intent, brushing his hands, his hips, his shoulders, cutting sharply across the collarbone and then slides, serpentine, up the curve of his neck and jaw.

They linger on his lips in a moment that could slip between two heartbeats, before finally coming to rest on Castiel's eyes. The unabashed lack of shame there should probably bother Castiel more than it does.

Dean closes the distance, and the angel blade slams into the wall beside Castiel's head.

Castiel does not flinch.

His other hand comes to rest on Castiel's other side, palm flat against the wall next to his ear, boxing Castiel in. Dean keeps his grip on the hilt of the weapon, blade buried deep into the plaster. Castiel allows it, allows Dean to lean in until there's mere molecules of space left between them, black eyes wide.

"I gotta say, I like this version of Purgatory better. More skin, less teeth." His words are soft, playful even, a stark contrast from the cold stare. "The monsters are doin' it all wrong."

Castiel searches those eyes for something, anything — and comes up empty. "Perhaps," Castiel says. There's only two ways out of this situation, and Dean can still pull that blade out of the wall fast enough that it poses a problem. "I could do without the scent of urine and obscene amounts of glitter."

Dean throws back his head to laugh, shockingly loud, and the sound echoes off the walls. He looks more like himself — looks _human_ — and Castiel sees it shift beneath his skin, smoke vanishing under warm freckled skin beading with perspiration. His eyes are clear when he looks at Castiel again, still crinkling at the corners. Something inside Castiel's chest tugs hard.

"You look good, Cas." Dean leans in, face sliding into the space between Castiel's neck and jaw, and inhales. "Find yourself some poor schmuck to use as a powerup?"

The phrase comes to him without thought. "Couldn't show up to a gunfight with a knife."

"That is still so fucking weird," Dean says, pulling back. His hand shifts off the handle of the angel blade and Castiel watches it with his peripheral vision, feels it as it slides over his shoulder and across his shoulder bone, down along his chest, rising and falling with every heavy breath he takes. Dean's eyes follow it. "Is this my shirt?"

Castiel shudders as unwanted arousal curls around the base of his spine like a snake. "Considering the circumstances, I didn't think you'd mind."

"Considering the circumstances, I should gank your ass," Dean says, eyes flicking back up. The hand on Castiel's chest shifts back up, over his throat, and _tsks_. "I told you not to hunt me."

Castiel tilts his head — if Dean planned to kill him outright, he would not have missed. He reaches up, slow and deliberate, and grips the wrist of the hand Dean has around his neck. Yhe tendons beneath his fingers flex, but Dean doesn't tighten his grip. "I think it's fair to say I fail quite miserably with following orders."

"Well, if we're not going to Battle Royale..." He glances at the stalls to their right, and grins, exposing a flash of teeth. "Whaddya say, angel," he jerks his head at the stalls. "You slip me a fifty, I'll take a knee, and rock your fuckin' world."

Castiel glances at the stall. "No." It's dangerous, taking his eyes off Dean, but looking into those eyes and not seeing the soul behind them is worse. "This isn't you. It wouldn't mean anything."

"No, see, that's where you're wrong." Dean's fingers move along his jaw and turn Castiel's head back. Dean's eyes are black. "This _is_ me. The me that knows what I want, and isn't afraid to take it." He blinks and his eyes slide back. His fingertips drag light and slow against Castiel's throat. "It means everything to me."

"Come back with me," Castiel attempts. He has to try. "Come back, and I'll do whatever you want."

The fingers around Castiel's neck squeeze, just enough to make him tense. "Desperation is really unattractive, sweetheart." Castiel swallows against his grip, and closes his eyes. "M'not generally into cherry pie, either, if y'know what I mean. You're a little low mileage for my tastes, but for you," Castiel opens his eyes just in time to see Dean smile again, and Castiel resists the urge to shudder as Dean's eyes crawl over his body. "I'd made an exception."

The angel blade is tucked behind his back, and Castiel knows he can get to it with his other hand. He could reach across the space with the hand on Dean's wrist, press it against his forehead and let what little angelic grace he has do the rest. He doesn't know if it'll work and will likely kill him with the effort, but he has to try. That's why he's here, why he left Sam behind.

It's what Dean — the real Dean, _his_ Dean, would want.

Dean mistakes his hesitation for trepidation and rolls his eyes. "Right, I forgot, you're the kinda guy that needs a decade of foreplay first. So c'mon, Cas," and Dean leans in, breath scorching against the shell of Castiel's ear, words reverberating like an echo in the bathroom as Dean disappears. " _Dance with me_."

+


	7. Chapter 7

**not so holy after all**

* * *

  


vi.

  


The dance floor is a sea of skin and glitter and sin. Dean loses himself in it, gets a little drunk on the scent of souls and whiskey and anticipation. There's so much _want_ here, so much raw desire it almost — _almost_ — takes the edge off, soothes that prickle of bloodlust lurking beneath his skin.

Cas is like a beacon in the darkness, grace bright from its recharge, blue light blinding. Dean blinks, brings the world back into focus, grinds against the stranger that slides against his back. Tips his head back as hands slide around his waist, converge on his navel and drift lower, arches into the fingers sliding between his legs.

He drifts for a while, passing from one embrace to the next. Some of them are larger than he is, but most are smaller; some are so slight and young Dean would have broken them in half when he was human, and now could rip them to shreds. So willing, so _trusting_ , too drunk on lust to acknowledge the hindbrain, to listen to the little voice inside screaming _danger danger_. He could have them all, one at a time or all at once, and bathe in their blood and screams as he razed this place to the ground.

Dean twists out of the current grip on his hips and turns, and stares into bright blue eyes, thin rings around blown pupils, and every other body around him fades away.

He smiles, slow and sweet, and shrugs off the hands trying to reclaim him. He slides his hands around Cas' waist and reels him in, and Cas comes easy. Dean leans in close, lets his forehead rest against Cas'. "There's my angel."

Cas' skin is dry, and warmer than the Miami sun. He doesn't pull away. "Come back," he says again. 

"What, no dance?" Dean says. "C'mon, Cas. For old time's sake."

"Dean — " Cas cuts off as Dean maneuvers him through the small crowd of people playing pool on the outskirts of the dance floor, keeps pushing until Cas' back hits the wall. His left hand grips Dean's forearm, tightening over the mark. It pulses, sending a hot jolt through Dean that makes him shiver. "Dean, we can't — "

"Sure we can," Dean says, because who the fuck will stop them? 

Cas tenses as Dean leans back in, but holds his gaze. "This isn't you."

"Wrong," he says. "This is just the best part of me, without any of the buzzkill. What, you think I don't remember?" Cas looks away, and Dean takes him by the chin and pulls him right back. "I do, Cas. I remember _everything_. Every time you didn't leave well enough alone, every time you didn't listen to me — didn't trust me — every time you _didn't_ come when I called. And you know what?" Dean shrugs. "It's okay, man. I get it. Hell, I _forgive_ you."

Cas closes his eyes and takes a breath. When he opens them again, his gaze is burning. "You shouldn't."

"But I do, Cas. I forgave you, every time. Fuck, I've already forgiven you for shit you haven't pulled yet," Dean says, and pulls the angel blade from the back of Cas' waistband. He drags the tip of the blade up Cas' chest, along his throat and under his chin, uses the point to make Cas look at him when he smiles. "Life's too short, and all that."

Cas relaxes against him, giving in to the inevitable, hands smoothing along his arms. "So now what?"

Dean leans in, so Cas can feel every inch of him laid out along his body. "Whatever the fuck we want."

Cas cringes and pulls away. "I don't want this."

"Liar. You're so fucking hot," Dean breathes out and means it, he's been cold for days and days and Cas is pulsing like a pocket-sized supernova wrapped in skin. "Don't you wanna to keep me warm, Cas?" His lips part as Dean ghosts over them on the way to his jaw, and Dean slices at his jugular with a smile. "Wrap those wings around me like it's Purgatory, baby, and take me apart."

Cas smells — _literally_ — like Heaven. Dean's a little drunk on it, little dizzy from the danger of grace just under his fingertips. He brushes his cheek against Cas', stubble catching the soft skin near his ear. Low on juice or not, he's pretty sure Cas could kick his ass into next week before Dean could get the upper hand, but Cas isn't moving, isn't leaning in or pulling away, just lying in wait like an event horizon Dean hasn't hit yet. 

"C'mon, sweetheart, let me lead you into temptation," Dean murmurs against his ear; Cas bangs his head against the wall as he turns his head away, "and deliver you unto some _fantastic_ fucking evil." 

Cas looks at him then, eyes glowing in the darkness. It reminds Dean of a kitchen six years ago, when he didn't know the true meaning of the word holy, when he thought the worst thing that could happen to him was Hell. 

He's flipped so fast it would take his breath away, if he had to breathe.

"Sonofabitch," Dean mutters, and Cas' hands are on him, all over him, and he arches into it because he can't even remember a time before he wanted this. Cas' hands are huge, one holding his right wrist to the wall, the other slipping down his chest, his side, the soft skin above his hip. He doesn't stop there, hand sliding around his back, palm flat and white-hot against the small of his back, dragging slowly back up his spine, riding his shirt up around his chest. Dean grabs at him with his free hand, catches a belt loop and pulls him in, hip to hip, and lets Cas know just how on-board he is with this.

He doesn't expect Cas to push back, shove a thigh between his legs, and grind him into the fucking wall, hand sliding back down his chest, but he's totally fine with where this is going. The fact that it's not quite dark enough to get away with fucking in here unnoticed is not something Dean's concerned with. Let them watch. His world has narrowed down to a point and all it contains is Cas, with his hands like fire and iron grip on Dean's wrist, hot and hard in every way Dean's ever wanted him and never let himself have.

Dean doesn't realize that Cas is patting him down for a solid few minutes. He laughs, dark and low, leaning his head back against the wall, exposing his throat. Runs his free hand under the thin cotton t-shirt of his that Cas is wearing. Maps the lines of Cas' chest with his palm, brushes a thumb over a nipple, scrapes his nails down Cas' sternum. "And here I was thinkin' you just wanted me for my body."

Cas pulls the hand on Dean's back away, but otherwise doesn't move. They're still connected at the hip, and Dean takes advantage of it, rolls up just enough to make Cas tighten the grip on his wrist, hard enough to break if Dean were human. Cas closes his eyes, opens them again. Resolute. "Where is it?"

"We'll never get a better time than this," Dean says, lets his eyes slide dark as a reminder. Curls his hand around Cas' waist, pulls him closer. "Tell me you never wanted this. Tell me you haven't been holding off because you were too much of a fucking coward to take it." He leans back in and Cas turns his head, letting Dean catch the corner of his mouth. "You can have me now, Thursday. You can have me any way you want." He coaxes Cas back with his mouth, lips moving against lips. "You don't have to worry about hurting me, now. Not like this."

Whatever self control Cas is hiding behind is crumbling, Dean can _feel_ it, knows he's inches from closing this deal. It's some sort of demonic instinct, because he knows exactly where to apply pressure, how much, for how long. Knows just how to nudge his way into Cas' mouth, taste the wet heat inside him, grace itching to strike out and light him up. 

_I-I-I-I_ _feel_ _something so wrong, doing the right thing..._

The bass of the music's too loud, suffocating, filling his head with an incessant buzz and Dean doesn't care, just dives in, tongue, teeth and all. Grabs Cas by the back of his neck and pulls him in. Feels Cas' tongue slide along his in time with the roll of their hips. Feels a moan crawl out of his throat and into the wet slide of their mouths. Feels Cas' hand slide off his wrist, over his palm. Feels their fingers lace together. Feels Cas _squeeze_.

_...and I-I-I-I_ _feel_ _something so right, doing the wrong thing..._

Dean doesn't see her coming; to be fair, it's a _really_ good kiss. 

The knife finds its mark, shoved under his left armpit, exposed because he has Cas by the back of the neck. She doesn't hesitate at all, shoves it right in up to the hilt. The blade slides neatly between his third and fourth ribs, just like he taught her, long enough to pierce his heart. The pain is fucking _intense_ , radiating out from the blow through his body like the strike of lightning, sharp pricks of pain stabbing at every individual cell all at once. Dean isn't even aware his knees have hit the floor until he opens his eyes with a gasp, palms flat against the sticky linoleum floor.  Had he been human — hell, even a standard NPC demon — it would have killed him instantly.

It all happens in an instant and when Dean looks up, Cas looks as surprised to see her as Dean is. Surprise that quickly shifts into fear as Dean curses, pushing to his feet. He shoves Cas back against the wall with one hand and grabs her by the throat with the other, slamming her back into the wall in one movement. He holds her there as he pulls the knife out with his other hand, gently, because this is Sam's fucking knife and what doesn't kill him can still hurt like a motherfucker.

"That was rude," Dean says, wincing as the knife slides free. It's dripping blood and there's another shirt ruined. Good thing Bela got spares. "And didn't anyone teach you not to take things that don't belong to you?"

Krissy is holding onto his wrist, legs kicking, but she doesn't have the leverage to cause any damage. Dean squeezes her throat until he hears something _crunch_ , and her kicks get panicky. The hands on his wrist scramble, nails digging in hard, leaving red trails in his skin. "You never did learn how to take a hint."

Her lips, already losing color, go slack in an airless gasp as he sinks the knife in, slow and deep, right under the ribcage.

She crumples to the floor in a heap when he lets her go, and someone behind him screams. 

+

"What the fuck happened?"

Sam looks worried. The worry morphs into anger once Castiel has explained. Castiel can't fault him for that.

Castiel watches the ambulance doors slam closed, and Sam winces as the sirens begin to blare as it pulls away. He had done what he could to stabilize her, but only just — the rest would be in the hands of the trauma center they were rushing her to.

She never should have been there. Leaving her outside would not keep her out of the building, not with a hunter's skill set. She shouldn't have come with them in the first place. Castiel should have known better.

"And he just — left?" Sam angles himself between Castiel and the retreating ambulance, trying to get his attention. "Just like that?"

"Yes, Sam. Just like that." Castiel looks over at the remains of the club — there isn't much left. By the time Sam had arrived, the flames had died down, but black smoke still billowed out into the sky like an angry volcano. The red lights of the fire trucks dash along the charred brick walls, reminiscent of the club lights that had once danced inside. Most of the patrons escape the flames, but not all of them — men in uniform are still pulling out bodies wrapped in black bags and lining them up by the curb. 

He turns back to Sam, and hands him the demon blade. It's still covered in blood. "He left it inside of her," Castiel explains, when Sam just stares at him.

He takes the blade anyway, tucking it out of view. There's still a lot of people clustered outside, and there seems to be little regard for the police tape that has been erected around the scene. "So what is this, some sort of demonic pyromania?"

"I believe Krissy — as you would put it — pissed him off," Castiel says, and follows Sam back towards the alleyway where he parked Cas' gold sedan. "Hellfire burns quickly. He is beginning to learn how to harness the power the mark gives him."

"Or somebody is giving him lessons," Sam says, and pops the trunk. 

A devil's trap has been painted inside the lid. A woman glares at them both from inside, hog-tied and gagged. When she sees Castiel, her eyes turn black, as if he couldn't already see her for what she really is. 

"Cas, I'd like to introduce you to Bela Talbot."

+

The first level of Hell isn't anything like Dean remembers.

"Not sure I like what you've done with the place," he says, but Crowley smiles anyway. His true form shadows them as they go, a larger-than-life winged serpent made of red smoke. There's no need for vessels, not here — but Crowley keeps his skin, and Dean is sure it's for his benefit. 

"It's more efficient," Crowley explains. The lines are infinite in length and boredom, and Dean can see his point — if Alastair had gotten this creative, Dean would've broken in a week. "There are, of course, always the lower circles for those who deserve a more... specialized rehabilitation."

Dean wonders how much time passes as he follows Crowley deeper. He supposes it doesn't matter, not anymore. The descent seems more or less the same; a violent, endless wind tossing about souls gives way to those battered by acid rain, hail and black snow, sinking deep into the icy bog. Hellhounds stalk the marsh, mauling souls as they go. Dean remembers the terror when he first saw them, the pain when they tore into him, but they look so much real here: long thin bodies, starved, always hungry; fur of black smoke that curls and flickers like flame; six glowing red eyes, three sets of two, fixed upon dragon-like heads; impossibly long, blindingly white teeth.

The snarls of the hounds fade as they venture down, past the wasteful and pack-rat souls forced forever to push immense boulders in and out of the center; they follow the river of blood where the wrathful battle each other eternally, and the sullen sink below the surface; it gives way to the muted shrieks of heretics trapped inside a sea of stone coffins, all burning, an endless circle of unholy light.

"I'm sure you've fond memories of this sandbox," Crowley says, as they reach the seventh circle.

Mostly what Dean remembers is pain. The endless desert of blazing sand, its sky forever afire, patched with oases of boiling streams of blood with thorny trees ravaged by demons in the form of harpies. The racks are still there, a line of criss-crossed chains that go on forever, every single one of them occupied. Alastair favored this place, both for the atmosphere and the warmth. He always said seven was his favorite number. "What is this, a world tour?"

"More like the highlights," Crowley says, and leads on.

Hell got worse the deeper one went. An immense canyon makes up the next level, divided into huge trenches full of thieves and pimps and false prophets. It's bleak here, and the bare rock creates a massive echo chamber for all the torment they contain. Dean follows Crowley's path along the precipice, splitting down the middle. Twelve demons perch on a cliff face above the lake of boiling pitch below, black and bubbling. They move together, a gaggle of black smoke and devil tails and bat-like wings.

"The Malebranche you've met," Crowley says.

"Not much to look at, one short," he notes.

"Alastair did keep them in line," Crowley admits. They move aside for their king, but Dean sees the recognition as their eyes pass over him. The fear there, though — that's new. "Shame your brother had to kill him, this lot runs rampant now that Malacoda's taken over. Getting them to do anything is like trying to herd cats." He pauses, glancing over the lake. "You idiots realize Nixon's gotten out again?"

There's a collective shriek from the gaggle. They rise together and split apart, descending like heat-seeking missiles. Somewhere below, a soul screams. "And here I thought you ran a tight ship."

"You think Abaddon would've done a better job?" Crowley shakes his head. "I feel like I'm running a daycare instead of running Hades. It's unprofessional, is what it is." He smiles, though, as a harpy flashes by overhead, a soul screaming between its talons. Dean watches as it drops the soul into the next pit before plucking another, gliding off to the next crevice, and Dean resists the urge to scratch at the mark on his arm. "Come on, then," Crowley says, snapping him out of it. "I haven't all day."

The deepest part of the pit is a wasteland of cold melancholy. 

The stillness is unnerving. Dean was here so briefly, it's easy to forget. The entire place seems held in a despondent stasis, lake frozen solid and slick. The souls trapped at its surface disfigured by the ice, eyes frozen shut with tears that never get to fall. Dean was one among millions, then, until Alastair had come for him. 

Dean follows Crowley across the glass-like surface of the lake, ignoring the chattering of the souls trapped inside of it, and resists the urge to shiver. The mark burns against his arm, and Dean grips the blade tighter. The surface of the lake is vast — not endless, but oceanic — and they walk for a long time. The only sounds are the moans of the damned, the distant thunder overhead, and the shrieks of the imps darting between them and the storm, some with souls snared in their talons.

The dip looks like a mirage, and it isn't until they've reached the center that Dean can see the concave in the otherwise smooth surface. Deep below, Dean knows it holds the cage, encased in solid ice. The ice here is foggy, and water beads along the surface, forming a small puddle. Empty pits surround it, holes left from where souls have crawled free. An imp lands beside the puddle and scratches at it, chittering at its King.

When Dean looks at Crowley, the serpent stares back, watching him carefully. "Clever plan, tossing him back in. I'd give you two full marks, except — " 

There's a noise beneath them like a sonic boom. The serpent hisses, and Dean can feel the sound more than hear it, vibrations slamming up through the flesh of his body all the way to the bone. Lighting strikes the center of the puddle, and the imp is incinerated with a forlorn squeak.

Dean takes a step back, shielding his eyes from the glowing light. "I thought it was made to hold them."

"It was made for Lucifer." The puddle is still boiling from the strike, and Dean can see the faint glow coming up from below. It's only a matter of time before the ice melts enough that it's game over. "Not Lucifer _and_ his older brother. Single occupancy only."

"And this is my problem, why?"

"You've met them, haven't you?" The serpent vanishes beneath the skin of its vessel and Crowley squints at him. "Right, my mistake. You weren't around the first time those two had a tantrum — "

"Neither were you, _Fergus_."

Crowley pauses, and Dean sees something there, a flicker of a smirk, before its schooled away. " — and they never got a chance for a second round, thanks to you and Moose. All that fun you're having upstairs? If Ali and Frazier get loose again, you can kiss it all goodbye. There won't be anything left — nothing to corrupt, nothing to shag, and certainly nothing left to _kill_."

He pauses his tirade as another shudder passes through the lake, and a light brighter than a sun erupts beneath their feet, lighting up the lake like an ocean of fire. Dean squints, but the light fades as fast as it came, imploding back to the center. Every hair on his vessel is standing up, goosebumps prickling along his skin in waves. The power there is more than impressive; it's _threatening_.

"You asked me for one good reason," Crowley says. "I've given you two."

So much for just running an errand. "That's your master plan, then? Open it up again and have me waste the douchebags?" 

"Are you mad?" Crowley rolls his eyes. "That mark might make you feel invincible, but Cain stayed hidden for good reason. Blade or not, you don't pick up the gauntlet against _one_ archangel unless you bloody have to. Both of them — well, let's just say getting buggered by Michael and Lucifer won't be nearly as much fun as shirtlifters picked up at the bar."

Dean reminisces on that, and smiles. That _had_ been fun. The prospect of postponing doing it again because these assholes get loose and throw a bitch fit makes him scowl. "If you don't need me to kill them, what the fuck are we talking about?"

Crowley snaps his fingers and they're no longer in Hell, but standing in an empty field. Dean recognizes it instantly — the old boneyard outside Lawrence, the place Michael and Lucifer were supposed to start their holy showdown. Mid-summer, the place is in full bloom, knee-high grass waving gently in the wind. The sun is high in the sky, its warmth welcome after the freezing temperature of the pit.

"I needed you to understand the gravity of the situation," Crowley says, turning to face Dean. "Are you ready to play along?"

"Depends on what you need."

"How familiar are you with biblical relics?"

"You mean aside from this?" Dean gestures at his body. He wonders how Michael would react if he could see what his vessel had become. "I've seen a few heavenly weapons in my time. But thanks to Balthazar, most of those are still in the wind. Whatever's left is in Heaven, last I heard."

"I don't need a weapon. None of them would work on an archangel, anyway." Crowley stuffs his hands in his pockets and squints up at the sun. "I'm looking for a...call it a trinket. A little souvenir, from the pre-Anno Domini years."

"Uh-huh. Why do I have the feeling this little souvenir is key to your endgame world domination?"

Crowley looks down and grins, slow and seductive. "I'm only interested in Hell-domination. Even my greed has limits."

Dean snorts. "I'm gonna call bullshit."

"Look, none of it will matter if either of those feathery twats break loose and burn down the whole sodding world," Crowley hisses, eyes red and impatient. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, the roiled smoke beneath his skin settling. When he opens them again, they're clear. "Can we just make nice, for once? I do so hate it when we fight."

Dean shrugs, and sheaths the blade in his waistband. "So if it's not a weapon, what is it?"

"I'm sure you're familiar with the Star of David?"

"The double triangle Jews slapped on a flag to make themselves feel special? Sure."

"No, Abraham, the _actual_ star," Crowley says, impatience creeping back into his voice. "Not to be confused with the shield, but that's another story entirely. You'll find no mention of either in the Torah beyond the significance, but like most legends, they owe their origin to truth." 

Dean stares at him. "You want me to go get you a goddamn _star?_ "

"Lucky for you, it's not of the exploding-ball-of-gas variety," Crowley continues. "It's small — small enough to fit in the palm of your hand, and, if the rumors I heard are true, made of wood. Which I suppose makes sense, since it was crafted long before the Industrial Revolution."

"Small and made of wood," Dean repeats. "This is seriously all you have to go on?"

"What do you take me for? Some sort of amatuer?" The flat way he pronounces the _tuer_ makes Dean's fist flinch, itching to punch the smarmy English asshole right in his smarmy English face. "Word on the wire is that the Men of Letters took possession of it few decades ago. Raided some Nazi-necromancers storage, if my sources are to be believed — and the way I ask, they _always_ tell the truth."

Dean tilts his head back, lets the sunshine wash over his skin, leeches what warmth he can. "You think it's in the bunker."

"I know it is. I've seen it."

Dean looks back down. "Why the hell didn't you grab it yourself?"

"Problem with holy artifacts, they're dangerous for demons like me."

"Oh, what, and it'll just tickle me?"

"You're different." Dean rolls his eyes, but Crowley pushes on. "I'm not flattering you, princess. You've got _lineage_ on your side. Call it a bonus for being an angelic vessel. Worst it'll give you is a couple of third degree burns."

"Would it've killed you to mention the damn thing before? I could have gotten it the first time."

"What, show my hand before I knew what team you'd be playing for?" Crowley scoffs. "Please. I didn't get where I am by betting on speculation."

"Who says I'm playing for your team?"

"Call it a calculated risk."

"Oh, yeah?" Dean asks. "And what're your odds?"

"Good enough," Crowley says, smirking like he knows something Dean doesn't. "Anyway, assuming you didn't completely wreck the place, it's still sitting innocently on a bookshelf in the library." He looks at his watch and frowns. "Bollocks. We were downstairs longer than I planned. You better move quick, those oafs are probably pulling into Lebanon as we speak. In the meantime, I've got my own work to do. Those loose souls are causing all sorts of chaos. The imps are going to unionize with the way their overtime is piling up."

He turns to leave, but Dean calls after him, "You forgot to tell me what this thing does."

Crowley looks back over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow. "Did I?" 

The serpent smirks, and Dean is left standing alone in the empty field. 

+

"This would go faster if you'd let me interrogate her," Cas says for the fifteenth time.

It's true, Sam knows. Bela smirks at him, chained to her chair, her hair and shirt wet and sticking to her slick skin. It's still smoking from the holy water. They only got back two hours ago and Sam is so beyond exhausted he came out the other side into wired. Once Dean vanished in Miami, there was no reason to hang around — he could be anywhere with a thought, and didn't bother to look for the Impala, so their best chance of finding him is currently sitting in the middle of the old devil's trap carved into the floor.

"Oh, let the angel have a go," Bela sneers, raising her chin as she looks Castiel over. "Devil knows I could use a laugh."

Two hours, and all Bela's done is hiss and laugh at him. Sam knows he's hesitating because he knew her, the _human_ her, and he's seen how Castiel makes people talk. The memories make him cringe, and Sam doesn't cringe easy. 

"Not that I've got no problem laughing at your sorry attempts at torture for another couple of hours, if that's what gets you going." She leers at him, licks her lips. "Is this really the best you've got? Maybe you need some extra juice to get you going." She tilts her head, baring the long line of her neck. "Go ahead, Sammy. Take all you need."

Sam grimaces and throws another pitcher of water on her just to hear her scream. It doesn't make him feel any better. "Fine. You asked for it." He stops Cas as he moves forward with a gentle hand on his elbow. "Careful, all right? There's still a girl trapped in there, somewhere."

Cas eyes him like he intends to take no such precaution, but nods, and rolls up his sleeves. The moment they'd returned to the bunker, he'd changed out of Dean's old clothes and into a spare suit. Sam doesn't know why — the clothes were clean enough — but didn't press. In fact, Castiel hasn't said a word about his encounter with Dean, other than that thanks to Krissy, they knew the demon blade was as useless as it was against Abaddon. 

Sam's thoughts cut short when Bela screams again. He turns away, skin crawling under the noise, and busies himself with restocking the salt and pulling up a new jug of holy water.

The scream eventually fades and he can hear Bela panting, interrupted by a breathless laugh. "Is that the worst you can do, choir boy?"

Her screams go on a lot longer this time. Sam grips the edge of the table, fingernails digging into the splintered wood, and loses track of time. It's not her, not the girl he remembers, scared and begging for their help as the hounds came for her. It's not even the bitch that made their lives hell, undercutting them at every turn, that _shot him in the fucking arm_. 

This is just what the girl became because they didn't _help_ _her_.

Bela's cries fade into another broken laugh. "Fuck. Not so holy after all, are you? Pretentious tossers like to think you're better than us, but you're just as bad, thinking you can get your way with pain. You think _you_ can break me, angel? After what his brother did to me?" Sam whirls around and sees edge of her smile, sharper than a knife. "Oh, did Dean leave that part out when he told you about Hell?"

Cas moves towards her, but Sam holds out a hand to halt him. "What are you talking about?"

Bela leans back in her chair. Half her face is still red and burned from whatever Cas was doing, but he can see the edges of the burn recede as she stretches out. "Alastair thought I'd be a good one to break Dean in, when he first picked up that razor," she says, and pauses to spit blood out of her mouth. She grins at Sam. "All that pent-up anger. You know, it's funny, I think most of it was from me stealing that atrocious car of his. The obsession he has with that thing is unhealthy. Well, _was_ unhealthy. He doesn't seem to give a toss about it so much, these days."

"She's stalling," Cas says. 

It's a fair point, but at least she's talking. "You're saying that _Dean_ did this to you?"

"The list of things he _didn't_ do to me would be shorter than the things he did do." Bela shifts, trying to stretch, and sags when she finds there's no give in her bonds. "Got to know one another real well, Dean and I. The things that man can do with a blade..." Sam does not miss the small shiver that runs through her. "it's impressive. He was in the wrong line of work hunting, if you ask me. 

"You just don't get it, do you?" She rolls her eyes. "He was _made_ for this. Every step, every decision and choice he ever made, all amounted to this, and he — well, you've seen what he can do. And he hasn't even got started."

Sam glances at Cas, who looks about as thrilled to be hearing this as Sam feels. But if they can keep her talking, she'll let something slip, eventually. They always do. "Nice of Crowley to give you back to him, then," Sam says, and is pleased to see the smile slide right off her face. "Selling you off like some kind of whore for Dean to cut up whenever he's bored."

"He's having more fun slicing up the general population. You know, all those people you spent your lives trying to _protect_ ," she spits the word like it's filthy. "You're just wasting your time trying to save him. Even if you could, you think he could live with what he's done? He'd eat the barrel of his own gun. I'm honestly surprised he hasn't offed himself already, with all that luggage he used to drag around."

"We'll see about that." Sam digs the demon knife out of his pocket, and hands it over to Cas. 

"You do know there's nothing left of him, don't you?" Her eyes slide black, narrow and vicious. "Your precious brother? The sack of sad shite you love so much? He's gone, and he's never coming back."

It takes all the self control Sam has not to flinch in sympathy when Cas lays into her with the blade, going right for a nerve bundle that Sam knows from experience delivers the kind of pain that makes you want to die just to make the pain stop. 

He waits for her cries to die down before speaking again. "I don't want to talk about Dean. I want to talk about Crowley. You don't owe him anything, so why do this to yourself?" 

He squats down in front of her, waits until her eyes open and glare at him. "Maybe you're right. Maybe there's nothing left of Dean to save," he admits, and sees Cas pause behind her, eyes darting away for the barest instant. He comes back with the blade, expression is carefully blank. Sam refuses to let himself react to Bela's cries. "But you're only useful to Crowley while he needs you for Dean — "

Bela's scream ends on a hiss, fury in every word, "You think I don't know that?"

Castiel lets up on the blade, regarding her in silence for a beat of relief before digging right back in. "The moment he gets what he wants, you're just as disposable as everyone else on his payroll," Sam presses. "Dean's the one he gives a damn about. I want to know _why_."

Bela continues to grimace, chest heaving with the effort of holding in the scream begging to be let free. "I need to sleep, but he doesn't," Sam reminds her. "So you can either make this easy on yourself, or Cas can keep you company until I've had myself a nap."

Sam stands up, and has barely turned around when he hears her gasp out, "Wait. _Wait_. Fuck, all right."

He makes a show of yawning as he turns back to face her. "If you're just going to stall, I'm going to forget to set an alarm."

Bela looks at Sam like she'd like nothing better than to filet him from groin to chin. "What do you want to know?"

"What's Crowley after?"

"You mean aside from your brother's — admittedly attractive — backside?" She shrugs, then flinches when she catches the edge of the blade Cas is still holding at her back. "The same thing he always wants. The upper hand."

"You've got about three seconds to get specific — "

"You think Crowley lets me in on his big plans? That git wouldn't trust his own mother to hold his dick while he took a piss," she spits. "Look, all I know is he wants something, something he needs Dean to get. And before you ask what, I couldn't tell you if I wanted to. It's something he can't get himself. But your brother has a habit of biting the hand that tries to direct him, so he's being careful. Dean's better at accepting suggestions than following orders."

"And do you know where Crowley is..." Cas trails off on a sneer, and Bela jerks as he twists the blade behind her, "directing him?"

Bela snarls, lips pulling back over her teeth, and her eyes go dark. "Probably bending him over, right about now."

Cas suddenly has her by the hair, pressing forward with the demon knife, out of sight. Bela shrieks. "But why _Dean?_ "

"I don't know! I only know he needs it because of the shit going on in the pit, okay? _Fuck_ ," she gasps as Cas releases her, leaning as far away from him as he can. "Aren't you assholes supposed to be forgiving?"

"What's going on in the pit?" Sam says, before Castiel can respond to that. He snaps his fingers in front of Bela's face. "Hey, _focus_. What's going on in Hell?"

Bela sags in the old chair, eyes rolling. "Dunno that either. Above my paygrade." She pauses to suck down a breath, and Sam wonders why she bothers. It's not like she needs to breathe. "I know that it's Essential Personnel Only down on level nine, and that he's got the imps breeding again to keep up with whatever's going on. And let me tell you, imps? Filthy goddamn beasts. Nobody wants more of them around unless they're really desperate for help too simple to ask questions and too stupid to gossip."

Sam glances at Castiel, who looks as curious as Sam is worried. "Level nine," he repeats. "You mean where Lucifer's cage is."

"Well, sure, it's Hell's version of a penthouse and all. Little chilly for my tastes, but — " It's interesting to watch the body of the girl she's riding pale, blood draining from her face as the realization sinks in. "You think — "

"I think it's one of the few things that could make Crowley desperate enough to court someone as likely to kill him as help him," Sam says. "If you think Lucifer breaking out of the box is bad news for demons, what do you think will happen if Michael gets free?"

Bela's quiet a moment, then shrugs and says, "I think it's a moot point, considering you're going to kill me before I need to worry about it." The smile fades when she looks at Sam, features slowly morphing from smug to anxious. "You _are_ going to kill me, right? I mean, that's what you do, isn't it? You got what you needed. You send me back, Crowley'll just pull me right back out. I've told you everything I — "

"Yeah, sure. Cross your heart and hope to die, blah blah. And I totally believe you, by the way," Sam adds, rolling his eyes. He jerks his head at Cas. "You sit tight, okay? Just, y'know, holler if you need anything."

She snarls at the smirk he casts at her, but Sam ignores her. Cas makes sure her bonds are tight before following him out into the hall, and Sam locks the door behind them.

"What do you think?"

"She was telling the truth," Cas says. He wipes his bloody hands on the button-down, tacky blood smearing brown against the white fabric. "And the truth is rather alarming."

"You're telling me. If either of them breaks out — "

"We can't worry about them. Not now," Cas says, sighing. "There won't be anything left for them to burn if we don't take care of Dean."

The way he says _take care of_ makes Sam's blood run cold. "Look, we know how to fix him, okay? We just need to lock him down. We know him better than anyone, we can find him. He won't give in to Crowley that easy — we've worked for him before, and Dean hated every second of it. If he still remembers — "

"If he remembers Crowley, he remembers everything else," Cas points out. "Demons have no capacity for empathy, Sam. He'll remember every slight, every time you — or I — turned our backs on him, and even if he remembers forgiving us, he won't remember _why_. He almost killed you already, do you really think he won't the next time he sees you?"

"He might try. But you're right, he _didn't_ ," Sam insists. "He didn't have to stop, but he did, Cas. Some part of him is still in there, fighting this — "

"You need to stop thinking about this like he's possessed. He isn't. This is what he would have become if I had never pulled him out of Hell, do you understand?" Castiel snaps, and Sam takes a step back in surprise. He can't ever recall Cas raising his voice, outside of his fights with Dean. "If Alastair had his way, if Dean had kept carving up souls like hers," he waves at the door to the storeroom, "it takes decades, _centuries_ , and he made the transformation in an instant. There's no soul to appeal to, no conscious to reason with. I know you want to save your brother, but she's right; there's nothing of him _left_ to save. And you need to realize that, Sam — you need to be prepared for the eventuality that it may come down to killing him, or we're both already dead."

"Is it that easy for you?" Sam shouts right back. "After everything he's done — everything he's given up for me, for you, fuck, you can just — "

His phone buzzes in his pocket. Sam doesn't stop glaring at Castiel while he fishes it out, and brings it to his ear. "This better be important."

"Only if you want to keep your front door." Sam blinks and steps back; shit, he knew he'd forgotten something. He'd texted Jody the address a couple of days ago in case they lost contact, but he never got around to calling her back, and she sounds _pissed_. "Because either you get up here and open it, or I'm going to chain it to my truck and rip the damn thing off its hinges."

Taking advantage of the distraction, Cas stalks off down the hall. Sam watches him go; he's angry, but less at Castiel and more at the universe in general for the situation they're in. 

"Well?" the voice in his ear demands. "I know somebody's home, with this P-O-S parked in the driveway. You're weeks overdue on explaining what the hell is going on."

"Yeah," Sam says, deflating. "Sorry. I'll be right up."

+

Dean keeps a spare key on the inside rim of the rear driver's side wheel.

It's one of those things he's rarely had to use, but growing up hunting he learned quick that often, he didn't have time to get his keys out of his jacket pocket some monster just shredded off his shoulders. Occasionally, he made the long walk from the motel to the bar, too hungover to remember to bring the keys to pick the car up. Sometimes, the cops caught up and he had to climb out the bathroom window mid-shower without his pants, much less his car keys. 

The car's sitting towards the end of the line, parked between a shiny new Escalade with bright rims and an old towncar with a mismatched door panel and short one hubcap. She's dustier than when he left her — judging by the itch on his arm, the trip to Hell had taken a couple of days — and has four bullet holes in the driver's side doors. There's two more holes in the windshield and one in the dash.

He isn't sure what he's doing here. He looks at the dust and the bullet holes and the general dismal image of the Impala sitting in some overflow police impound lot and wants to kill whoever did that, but he can't figure out why. Maybe all those years he spent keeping her cherry, all that work undermined by some trigger-happy douchebag, but he can't remember why he bothered in the first place. Sure, the car's been part of his fucked-up family longer than he has; she's been through every battle and heartbreak, seen every slight and slice of happiness, witnessed more love and betrayal than a goddamn soap opera. She's been covered in as much wax as blood over the years and been rebuilt from the frame up more times than he has. 

But it's just a goddamn _thing_.

The lot's monitored by six security cameras and a guard sleeping off a long hangover in the booth, and blocked by a cheap chain-link gate. There's no room to back her out of the spot, between the SUV and the sedan behind her, but that isn't really a problem. With a glance, the Escalade slams heavily into the hatchback ahead of it, and a wave of his hand sends the towncar sliding back into the bordering fence. The screech of metal-on-metal makes the guard jerk awake, but Dean's already climbing into the driver's seat.

"Hey, what the fuck do you think you're doing?" 

The end of the sentence is lost beneath the roar of his girl's V8. Her bumper catches the edge of the SUV on its way out, and the Impala bites like a shark, ripping the piece of plastic shit right off.

By the time the idiot pulls his gun, Dean's laying into the accelerator and aims the car at the gate. She punches through like it's made of paper, flinging the fence off her hood and into the street. The tires squeal as he spins the wheel, back end kicking out in a flourish as she straightens out, and for the first time since this shitshow started, Dean's smiling. 

+


	8. Chapter 8

**blinded by the light**

* * *

  


vii.

  


"Let me get this straight," Jody says. She's pacing the length of the war room, still dressed in her sheriff's uniform and fringe askew from where she keeps running her fingers through her hair. "Your brother took the mark of Cain to kill a Knight of Hell, then got stabbed by the scribe of God and became a demon," she has one hand balanced on the butt of her holstered gun, the other held out in front of her, fingers flicking up as she ticks each item off, "and now the _King_ of Hell is trying to corrupt him because the Devil is trying to break out his cage — _again_ ," she adds, with the kind of grin that simultaneously conveys disbelief and terror, "and you know _that_ because you tortured the information out of another demon hogtied in your storeroom?" She pauses to raise her eyebrows at him. "Did I miss anything?"

"I said it was complicated," Sam says, in his own defence. "And it's not just Lucifer trying to bust out. Michael's in there, too."

"Right, Michael," Jody says, nodding. "The...archangel."

Sam shrugs. "Yeah, that about sums it up."

"And you," she says, turning from Sam and wheeling on Castiel. He hasn't unglued his eyes from the laptop Sam set up to track the GPS in the Impala, but graces her with a glance when she stops in front of him. "You're an honest-to-God angel?"

"I don't know about honest," Castiel admits, eyes sliding back to the laptop. "But yes, I am an angel of the Lord."

She looks him over, taking in his sunken eyes, uncombed hair, five o'clock shadow, Dean's ratty Foghat t-shirt (proclaiming _What the F?_ on the chest), and declares: "Bullshit."

Sam pours her a couple fingers of whiskey and slides the glass her direction. "You can see why I didn't want to have this conversation over the phone."

Jody takes the glass and downs it like a shot, wincing at the burn. It's one of Dean's, so it goes down like gasoline. "Christ, that's — " she shoots a horrified look at Castiel. "Uh, sorry, I didn't mean — "

Castiel lifts one shoulder in a lazy shrug. "With the amount of blasphemy the two of them utter on a daily basis, I've grown used to it," he admits, without looking up.

Jody sits down heavily in the chair across from Sam. "Okay, putting aside the insanity of angels and Hell and — all of it," she says, sighing, and meeting Sam's eyes. "How the hell do you go about curing a _demon_?"

"It's not that complicated, once we catch him," Sam says. "Couple hours, few magic words, a little human blood — "

"Human blood," Jody repeats, deadpan.

" — well, yeah. I mean, we've seen it work."

"You've done it before?"

"Almost," Sam says, but doesn't go into detail. That's a story for another time, assuming they survive this one. "But other people have done it. Well, at least one person we know of, a long time ago. And I've seen it start to work." He pours himself a drink. "The hardest part is going to be getting him locked down."

"Right." Jody swipes the bottle and pours herself another shot. "How is it again your brother went from dead to a demon?"

"It's a — "

" — long story," she finishes with him, and sips at her drink. "Seems you got a lot of those."

"You have no idea," Castiel mutters from his corner of the table. Sam was a little worried about him on the drive back, unnerved by how tight-lipped the angel was about his encounter with Dean, but if he's still being a smartass, he's doing better than Sam thought.

Jody studies her empty glass and Sam waits, because there's not much else they can do at the moment other than hope Dean goes back for the Impala, or the war table starts lighting up with demon signs. He's overdue for a nap and with Jody here, now, he's thinking about trying to squeeze in a few hours. He's not sure when he'll get another chance.

"All those people," Jody says eventually. She's watching a sliver of whiskey glide along the bottom of her glass as she twists it in her fingers. "He killed them, didn't he?"

"Probably more," Sam admits. "And he won't stop until we catch him."

"Sam," she says, putting her glass down and meeting his gaze. "What happens if you can't?"

Sam feels Cas' eyes burn into him from across the table, but doesn't rise to the bait. "We'll catch him," Sam assures her. He downs his own drink, wincing at the burn. "We have to."

Jody nods in agreement, and even if she doesn't really understand how difficult that's going to be, Sam appreciates the gesture of solidarity. "All right," she says eventually, putting down her glass and standing back up. She unzips her jacket and tosses it on the table. "It was a long drive, I'm starving. When's the last time you ate?"

Sam blinks. Shit, he doesn't even know. "Um," he ventures. His stomach, awoken by the mention of food, growls deeply in answer for him.

"Uh-huh," Jody says, smirking. "Can't go chasing your brother all over Hell an' gone on an empty stomach. You got a kitchen in this doomsday shelter?"

The normalcy startles a laugh out of him. He gets up and shows her the kitchen, and she whistles in disappointment at the lack of anything in the fridge. ( _"You trying to grow something in here, or what?" "Look, Dean usually does the shopping." "Really?"_ ) There's week-old dishes in the sink and Jody puts him to work, and Sam holds his hands under the warm water as the sink fills up and starts sorting the stuff that just needs a quick swipe with a sponge from the stuff that needs a soak and scrub. 

Jody carries on a constant chatter in the background, mostly remarking on the bunker ( _"Where did you find this old place?" "Uh...short version's our grandfather left it to us." "...we're gonna have a long conversation when this is over, Sam. And a lot of whiskey."_ ) and Sam doesn't even realize how much he missed this until he feels his eyes start to sting. 

"Done with that skillet?" Jody whisks it out of his grip as he hands it over, waving a spatula in the other. "You like pancakes? I'm thinking pancakes."

"Pancakes for dinner?"

"Damn right pancakes for dinner." 

Sam manages to find some bacon in the freezer and Jody cooks that first, then uses the fat to grease the skillet for the hotcakes. Sam gets a pot of coffee going and in ten minutes' time, the kitchen smells absolutely divine. Jody plops a plate in front of his nose piled high with bacon and a short stack and Sam is so grateful for her in that moment he could kiss her. Except, y'know, that'd be kind of weird — he's not sure if Jody and Bobby ever were a thing and now isn't the time to ask, but still, he thinks it's more of a marital type of affection. But then he wouldn't really know; he has foggy memories of Dean doing this, when they were kids, only instead of pancakes it was more often Fruit Loops and spaghettios. 

He wonders if Dean still has memories like this, of Mary and John before the fire. He wonders if the demon Dean's become would know what to do with them.

"Do angels eat?" 

Jody's voice drags him back into the moment, and Sam chews a little more before answering. "Sometimes. The lower his batteries run, the more human he gets," Sam looks up, and realizes he never actually got around to explaining Castiel's situation. "He's... dying," he admits, and go figure, saying the words are when they land home. The food loses it flavor, but Sam swallows it down anyway. "If he wants food, he knows where to get it."

Jody takes the seat across from him, a more modest plate in front of her, but doesn't dig in. "I'm sorry."

"Yeah, me too," Sam says. He doesn't even want to think about what it'll do to Dean, once they fix him. His brother might put on a tough show, but Dean almost drank himself back to Hell the last time they thought Cas was gone for good. Sam shoves another forkful of food into his mouth and chews on autopilot; he isn't really hungry anymore, but his body needs the calories. "And thank you. For dinner, and for... everything."

"Don't mention it, s'least I could do. It's nice to be the one helping you guys out for a change."

They eat in silence, filling the kitchen with muted chewing and the sharp bite of forks against their plates. Sam finishes first and makes a quick trip to the storeroom — pointedly ignoring Bela's complaints about stretching her legs — to grab a couple of things. When he places the items across from Jody, she raises her eyebrows at him. "Keep those on you. The charm's for anti-possession, and the hex bag will keep demons and angels from being able to track you." One of her eyebrows arch a little further. "Just in case, okay?"

"Sure," she says, pulling the necklace over her head and tucking the items underneath her uniform. "Thanks."

"Least I can do," he tosses back, and tries to offer her a smile. Based on her expression, he isn't really successful. "When do you have to get back?"

"I haven't taken a vacation or sick day since my husband died," Jody tells him. Sam doesn't miss that she neglects to mention her son. "I've got enough leave saved up to take off the rest of the summer if I need to. Or however long it takes to get Dean back to normal."

"You don't have to — "

"You two don't have to go around fighting off everyone's worst nightmares and savin' the damn world, but you do anyway," she says shortly, but she's smiling as she cleans up their plates. "Maybe I wanna do more than just the least, and you should shut up and let me."

Sam huffs a laugh. "Okay."

She pauses, half-turned towards the sink, head tilting. "Okay? No this-isn't-your-responsibility speech this time?"

"Honestly, I'm too exhausted," Sam says, leaning back. "And between Dean not being himself and Cas liable to drop out at any moment, I could use the help."

"I'm sure the human company doesn't hurt," she adds with a small smirk, and Sam smiles and nods. "All right, well, first thing's first. You look like you haven't slept in about a week — "

"I've had a couple of naps — "

"REM sleep is what counts," Jody continues without losing a beat, mom-mode in full effect. "And a shower wouldn't hurt. You can't forget to take care of yourself if you want to help Dean. I'll keep your angel company, and — " she stops, eyes snapping to the doorway behind him, "Speak of the... well. You hungry?"

"No, thank you. Sam," Castiel says. Sam turns in his seat; Cas is standing in the hallway, laptop in his hands and turns it around, so Sam can see the bright red dot moving along the map. "You were right."

+

It starts as he's passing through Sugar Valley, Georgia.

He hasn't been through this town in — hell, thirteen years, give or take. It's the kind of rural farmer's town with no streetlights and more churches than stop signs, but there's an old iron railway that blocks his path and makes him detour up past the old _Rodeway Inn_. He slows down and glares at it as the Impala rolls past; it hasn't changed it all since he was occupying Room E on the far end, shortly after Sam had left for Stanford. It was a routine salt and burn, but the resident deputy (some greenhorn; tall, dark hair, kinda cute) was a royal pain. This town wasn't big enough for them to tromp through without a shadow, so John left Dean to keep the deputy busy, and went to burn the bones himself.

John hadn't specified _how_ to keep him busy, and Dean lost track of time, and will never forget the look on his father's face when he let himself back into the motel room.

Dean remembers it, all of it, in pristine detail. He remembers the heat, the feel of clammy skin and the smell of the twisted sheets; the sound of the door opening, the look of resignation and mild disgust on his father's face; the deputy muttering apologies and how he didn't want any trouble on his way out the door; how John hadn't said a single word; how he couldn't look his father in the eye, scrambling for his clothes without bothering to shower, and spending the night in the backseat of the car.

What Dean can't remember is _why_.

It's the last hunt he ever really did with John as a team; after that, they stayed close, always within state lines, but John got his truck and took off, started sending Dean further and further away to handle hunts on his own. He said Dean was old enough, could handle himself, needed to get some experience working alone because John wouldn't always be around to have his back.

The town's in his rearview mirror before he can puzzle it out, and lets the open road and endless fields wipe the memories clean.

+

"Do you think it's wise leaving them alone?"

The stretch between Topeka and Kansas City is short and full of road construction, so they detour off I-70 to Hwy 50, avoiding  the worst of it. Sam is driving. Castiel suggested he sleep while he could, but Sam insisted, saying he was too wired to try.

"Jody's fine. She can handle herself. And we kept Crowley locked down without a babysitter for months."

"I meant," Castiel starts, but doesn't finish. He doesn't know this friend, either, but trusts Sam's judgement. Hopefully Jody will heed their advice to completely ignore their captive while they are gone. "I still maintain you should have stayed with her."

Sam rolls his eyes without looking at Castiel. "Yeah, well, last time you ditched me, and look how well that went."

Castiel doesn't answer; Sam is fishing for information Castiel is hesitant to disclose. There had been a moment, back in the club, where Castiel was sure he was close — _so close_ — but then Krissy had interrupted, and the rest Sam already knew.

"Any change?" Sam prompts.

Castiel glances at the cell phone in his lap. "No. Still heading northwest."

"Right towards us."

"Yes," Castiel agrees. "For now. If he's going to retrieve something for Crowley, it would be advantageous that we intercept him before he reaches his destination."

"I don't suppose you have any idea what that something might be."

Castiel really doesn't. "Something that he can use against Michael and Lucifer, something that he doesn't have the power to get for himself? If I knew of such a thing, don't you think I would have attempted to get it myself when I was up against Raphael?"

"Sorry. I'm just — it can't be good, whatever it is."

That much Castiel can agree with. "We shouldn't discount the notion that he may simply intend to unleash your brother upon them."

Sam's hands tighten on the steering wheel. "Would that even work?" Sam asks after a loaded minute, keeping his eyes on the road. "Aren't archangels supposed to be — uh, absolute, or whatever?"

"I sincerely hope we never find out," Castiel says, and means it. "On the one hand, the mark itself is the manifestation of murder. It's why Dean didn't die — not truly — when Metatron killed him. The mark wouldn't let him go. It needs him to fulfil its purpose."

Sam digests that for a moment, the asks, "And on the other?"

Castiel sighs. "Cain spent his life in hiding. Perhaps out of a necessity for isolation, but he also warded himself from Heaven for good reason. You didn't get the opportunity to see the level of destruction Michael is capable of. Even if the bearer of the mark is truly unkillable, Michael could have cast his atoms far across the universe, with no hope of them coming together again."

"You think he'd do that to Dean?

"Maybe. But you must remember that Dean is his intended vessel," Castiel says, casting his own gaze out along the horizon. The sun is beginning to set, turning the sky the color of fire. It reminds Castiel of Hell, on that fateful day when Dean had snarled at Michael but walked right into Castiel's embrace. "If Michael could have him now, with the mark — "

"Dean wouldn't," Sam says, and Castiel isn't sure if Sam is trying to convince himself or Castiel. The car weaves in its lane. "Even now, even as a — he wouldn't. He'd never say yes."

"He almost said yes to Michael once before."

"Almost. _Almost_ , okay, and he'd never — " Sam takes a quick breath, and straightens the wheel. "He'd die first."

"His motivations are no longer human," Castiel points out. "Demons thrive on chaos. The mark thrives on murder. With Michael, Dean would have a surplus of both." And Michael would have the ultimate weapon to kill Lucifer. "You need to stop thinking of Dean as your brother. It's going to get us both killed."

"He went back for the car, Cas." Sam does look at him, then, eyes hard. "There's still something left worth saving."

+

Coalmont, Tennessee is less of a town and more of a long road through the woods with town-like buildings every quarter mile, the kind of place that still operates on dial-up internet. He isn't sure exactly where it starts or where it ends; the buildings just disappear after a while and Dean is driving through endless miles of dense forest on two lane asphalt, a dusting of gravel on one side to serve as a shoulder. The road is thin and twisted, and the trees block out the sun like driving through a tunnel. There's a forest fire somewhere nearby, smoke hanging in the air and making it hazy, and the smell of burning is pulled through the open windows.

It smells like Purgatory.

He thinks about the blood and the dirt and Benny. He can still feel the residual heat from being Hell-adjacent causing a perpetual sweat. He thinks about slicing his way through dozens of monsters with one goal in mind — _where's the angel_ — and tries to remember why he fought so damn hard.

The weird thing about Purgatory, the thing he never got around to telling Sam, was that he still had to sleep. He could never get more than half an hour at a time, even after he met Benny. At first, because he didn't trust the vamp, and later, the nightmares wouldn't let him. And then they'd found Cas. The first time they got jumped by Leviathan, he watched how Cas' wings unfurled and manifested like threats, larger than life and effortlessly beautiful. Dean remembers what they felt like, wrapped tightly around him while he slept and Cas kept watch, kept the monsters in the woods and in his dreams at bay. 

He wonders if he can get back there, now. He thinks if he could, he'd probably never leave.

The woods break open and sunlight glances off the hood. Dean winces and slams the sunshield down, squinting against the bright light. The road straightens out and he lays into the accelerator, and leaves the memories behind.

+

Hwy 50 gives way to I-44 just past the town of Union, and Sam directs Cas to take I-55 South to avoid the St Louis traffic altogether. Dean's still heading up through Tennessee, but this will keep them close enough that if he suddenly changes direction, they might be able to head him off. Sam drums his fingers along his knee, watching the pulsing red dot that shows Dean moving steady up small highways, halfway between Nashville and Clarksville.

He's mostly given up on trying to talk to Cas about Miami, partially out of exhaustion and mostly because Cas seems determined not to talk about Dean at all. Sam has used every interrogation trick he knows, up to and including asking directly, but Cas refuses to tell him anything beyond Krissy stabbing Dean and nearly getting herself killed. _Again_. 

Maybe he's going about this the wrong way.

Sam isn't an idiot. He's watched his brother and Cas dance around each other for literal years. He can't pinpoint an exact moment that he felt the ground shift and tripped right into feeling like a third wheel any time the three of them occupied the same space, but if he had to name a few, that time Dean called out Cas for working with Crowley, a look of utter heartbreak on his face, is probably at the top of the list. Ultimately, Sam made the executive decision to stay in his own fucking lane, because Dean would absolutely fly off the handle about it and Cas — fuck, Cas would never believe it, not from him. He might not even believe it if Dean ever pulled his head out of his own ass long enough to admit it, but that's always been the problem. Even if they grew up and learned to use their words like goddamn adults, neither of them would ever feel like they deserved it.

Well, screw it. If Sam's gotta be the fucking adult, so be it.

"You're wrong, you know," he says, and sees Castiel slant him a glance in his peripheral vision. "About Dean."

"Sam — "

"Maybe he will kill us. Maybe he won't. It doesn't matter — even if we had some sure-fire way to take him out, I wouldn't do it, and neither would you."

" _Sam_ — "

"No, just shut up and listen, okay?" Sam scrubs a hand over his face, pushing his hair aside. "You think I don't see it? What’s going on with you two? God, ever since you fell, you both just — it was funny, at first, but now it's — sometimes, I want to knock your heads together and lock you in a room until you figure it out." He lets out the rest of the breath in a rush. "I don't know how you _stand_ it."

Cas doesn't say anything, and when Sam looks over, Cas keeps his eyes carefully on the road.

"Dean never had faith in anything aside from Dad," Sam barrels on, because there's hundreds of miles of asphalt between them and their destination and Cas can't bail now, not if he wants to have any juice left to stand a chance against Dean. "Not in me, not in God — shit, he even gave up on Dad, after a while. He certainly never had any faith in himself, doesn't think he's worth the air he breathes, but you — " Sam can see the tick as Cas sets his jaw. "Even after Crowley, even after Purgatory, even after fucking Metatron and angels were raining down like meteors — he was pissed off, sure. But he _never_ lost faith. Not in you."

Cas' fingers twist along the steering wheel, eyes straight ahead. 

"I need you with me on this, man." Sam doesn't like to beg, but it's for Dean and this is Cas, and Cas is as much a brother as Dean is, these days. Has been for a long time, despite the fact that neither of them can get their shit together. "We thought we lost you to power, once, and — "

"I remember," Cas says, startling Sam into silence. "I also remember Dean binding Death in order to kill me."

Sam sucks in a breath. Okay, that's fair. And thinking back... well, the situation had been reversed, hadn't it? Dean desperately wanted to believe in Cas, despite Sam and Bobby and his own gut instinct telling him otherwise, couldn't wrap his head around the idea that Cas had gone to Crowley instead of coming to him for help. And after Cas swallowed down Purgatory, he really _hadn't_ been himself, and by that point, they were out of options.

"It was the right decision," Cas continues, calmly, because he hadn't had to watch Dean try and drink himself to death that year. "I was out of control, much like — "

"You broke his fucking heart, Cas," Sam snaps.

The following silence is interrupted only by the long blare of a horn in the adjacent lane, and Cas rights the wheel and lets the truck roar past.

"I never meant," Cas starts, then stops and takes a breath. He glances at Sam, looking a bit sheepish. "How long have you known?"

"Dude, seriously?" Sam manages a tired laugh, slouching in his seat. " _Years_ , man. I think I figured it out before you idiots did." He shakes his head, still not quite believing he's even having this conversation and god, when they fix Dean and he finds out — Sam glances at his phone, and sits up straight. "Shit!"

Cas looks back, alarmed. "What is it?"

Sam points at the off-ramp to Route 3 South. "Change of plans." Cas takes the exit and only then does Sam show him the map, and the stationary red dot just outside of Coldwater, Kentucky. "Time to see how fast this land-yacht of yours can go."

+

When he last passed through Chattanooga, Kentucky, Dean was barely seventeen going on forty.

Sam was twelve, still going on thirteen. There was a nest of vamps just outside the city, preying on highschoolers playing hookey in the dark February afternoons. John left them in a strip mall with two twenties in case he was late and they had to find a motel. Dean added it to the twenty he kept in his jacket lining for emergencies, and took Sam bowling. 

There were eight lanes that rented by the hour. It was a Tuesday afternoon, so most of them were open. The only other people playing were a small group of senior citizens that gave them curious looks as Dean set them up on the end. Sam rolled the ball with both hands between his legs, just like the old ladies down the row, and Dean landed every other swing in the gutter. They went through three helpings of chili cheese fries, and got one small fountain drink that Sam refilled over and over while Dean flirted shamelessly with the girl behind the counter as a distraction. Sam perfected his old-lady-strike and kept asking for one more hour, and Dean was so drunk on sugar and having a good time he obliged. 

It was close to closing time when Dean realized they were at their last twenty, and even the cheapest room in town wasn't that cheap. Dean wasn't good enough at bowling to hustle and wasn't old enough to get into a bar on his own, but nobody asked for ID at the old truckstop across the street. 

That was the first time Dean learned how to make twenty bucks in ten minutes. It wouldn't be the last; it was faster and less risky than stealing, and paid better.

Dean got them a room and spent an hour in the shower, Sam eventually banging on the door. " _Dude, what are even you_ doing _in there? Is there any hot water left?_ "

He can remember sitting on the cold floor of the tub, arms wrapped around his knees, water raining down like ice and numbing his skin. 

The recollection of the cold water makes Dean shiver and he can't shake the feeling he's missing something, a tangible weight just out of reach, a final piece of the puzzle that has it all makes sense. There's thousands of them, one town after another, each memory more confusing than the last.

Dean drums his fingers along the steering wheel. The bullet lodged in the cassette player is really cramping his style; the silence of the open road is suffocating, and the mindless rock 'n roll always made it bearable. 

He finds an old abandoned junkyard on the western border of Kentucky and guides the Impala through the open gates, the rumble of her engine made too-loud by the stacks of decaying cars. Frames are piled two, six, nine-high in some places, a huge maze of rust and steel and fiberglass. There's an old warehouse at the back, barn doors locked shut with cold iron chains. Dean parks the car alongside it, leaving the keys in the ignition. There's a smaller door on the side of the building, wooden and locked, but it easily gives way as he approaches, breaking off its hinges with a _crunch_. 

The metal shelves inside are reminiscent of those at Bobby's, over-stuffed with the guts of scrapped cars, top shelves standing too high to reach without a ladder for those a slave to gravity and physics. Bucket and bench seats, truck hitches and center consoles, whole dashboards and stereo systems. The left wall is made up entirely of wheel rims, bordered by tires so old they've begun to crack. He finds the circuit box, flicks the breakers, and smiles as two lonely lights sputter to life overhead, casting the room in a soft orange glow.

Dean focuses on the dashes and stereo equipment, sorting through piles with careful sweeps of his hand. He saw the rusty remains of a '66 SS Caprice outside, and keeps an eye out for the wood-grain finish that came standard on the dash. It's not like he's in a rush, and he can't do another twelve hours on the road without some music to drown out the idle thoughts. They're confusing and _endless_ and giving him a fucking headache.

Storm clouds brew overhead as he searches, static making the hairs on his arms stand on end as he carelessly dumps most of it on the floor until he finds what he's looking for. The AM/FM looks serviceable enough; the chrome is dulled by time, but it's nothing a good buff won't sort out. He takes it out by hand, carefully snapping the face of the dash to extract the box lodged inside of it. 

The radio crackles to life in his hands, soft yellow glow lighting up the display. Despite not being connected to any speakers, the dulcet tones of _Bad Company_ stutter out into the air, echoing off the metal walls.

_...feels like...I'm walking on holy water...feels like...I'm walking on sacred ground, baby..._

Dean pauses and looks up, listening to the wind rattling the panels of the roof. Thunder rumbles like a warning, and one of the bulbs overhead surges and pops. Something stirs in his gut, growls as another bulb blinks, shines bright, and explodes in its socket, plunging the warehouse into darkness.

_...all this temptation, I can't see wrong from right...it's a new sensation, y'know, I'm blinded by the liiiiight..._

Dean places the radio down on the concrete floor as he stands, and reaches for the blade tucked in his waistband. 

"You really dunno how to take a hint, do you," Dean says to the empty space. He turns, slowly, eyes searching the shadows. "But I guess I shouldn't have expected any different. You never do know when to leave well-enough alone."

"If you really wanted to stop me," Cas begins, and Dean turns on his heel to find Cas in front of the doorway, like Dean has any intention of running from this fight, "you should have killed me."

"Yeah, well, won't make that mistake again," Dean says. He rolls his shoulders, takes Cas in. He's wearing that stupid fucking coat again, over jeans and one of Dean's old t-shirts. Maybe he thinks it'll make a difference. "Shame about before, though. Coulda had some fun. God knows you've been wanting a piece of my ass for a while, now."

"It doesn't have to be like this." Lightning strikes outside as Cas moves closer, and Dean gets a flash of something else, a shadow of the being beyond the vessel, a sliver of grace and skeletal wings and charred feathers. "It's not too late to fix this."

There's a flash of memory, of Cas trapped inside a ring of holy fire, and a tightness blooms in Dean's chest he doesn't understand. The mark flares, heat shooting up his arm. "I ain't broken, sweetheart."

Cas stops just out of range. He doesn't look scared. He looks tired, but then dying is exhausting work. Dean would know. "Yes, you are. You just can't see it."

"I dunno, man. For the first time in a _long_ time, everything's pretty clear."

"You told me I was like a brother to you," Cas says, and wow, the nerve on this asshole. "You asked me to trust you, just _because_. I should have, and I'm sorry. But I need you to trust me, now."

"I already told you, sorry ain't gonna cut it. Not this time. But y'know, I gotta ask," Dean says, lips curling. "Why are you trying so _hard_?"

"You know why," Cas says. "I love you."

Dean throws his head back and laughs.

"Wow," he says around a smile, still laughing. "You got a real funny way of showing it, you know that?"

"Dean — "

"You love me," Dean repeats the words, mocking, rolling them over his tongue, and shakes his head. "Jesus Christ, Cas. Really? _Now?_ "

"Dean, I — "

Dean's back in his face before Cas can blink. "It's funny, 'cause I think I might've loved you back, once upon a time. I remember that, but y'know what I can't remember?" He lets his eyes slide over, reminds Cas what he's become. " _Why_. I mean, all you do is fuck shit up. Yeah, yeah, you dragged me out of Hell, jumped off the Holy Bandwagon, always came when I called. And then what?" Cas backs up, and Dean follows his steps, staying in his space. "Then you _left_ , every single time. You made a _career_ out of letting me down, man. Kinda like right now," he adds, shrugging. "If you really cared, you'd leave me the fuck alone."

Cas stops so abruptly that when he exhales, Dean's breathing his air. "I'm sorry, Dean. I can't do that."

"Yeah, I figured as much," Dean says, and tightens his grip on the weapon in his hand. Thunder booms overhead and he grins, licks his lips. "So, how 'bout that dance?"

The static in the air spits like hot oil, and the angel spreads his wings.

+


	9. Chapter 9

**every last trace of sin**

* * *

  


viii.

  


Sam wakes up in the front seat of the Continental with a start.

He blinks against a flash of light through the windshield. He wonders when he fell asleep; he'd been giving Cas directions to the lot where the Impala was parked according to the GPS, and wondering if Dean would even still be there. According to the map there was nothing there aside from an old junkyard, and then Cas had reached towards him — 

Sam sits up with a start. " _Shit!_ "

The door creaks as he shoves at it before he finds the handle and tries again, nearly falling out of the seat. Son of a _bitch_. Cas had reached right over and Sam didn't think anything of it, just blinked and then he was out. How long had he been here? Where the hell was Cas? What if Dean already — what if _Cas_ — 

Sam blinks and rubs at his eyes, looking around. He's surrounded by stacks of decomposing cars. The ground is an equal mix of dust and gravel and garbage. Dark clouds roil overhead, grumbling quietly in discontent. A single, thin strip of neon light arcs out of the clouds and strikes the warehouse before him. Sam ducks instinctively at the instantaneous thunderclap, hairs on his arms standing on end.

There's a sound underneath it, muted inside the metal walls, an inhuman roar Sam hasn't heard since Hell.

He checks his pockets and finds the demon knife still on him. It might not kill Dean, but if it has the same effect that it had on Abaddon, it might be enough to gain the advantage. But that means getting close enough that Dean can stab him _back_. The cuffs are still in his back pocket, and they'll definitely need those. He can't believe Cas left without them...

...unless Cas isn't even going to try and capture him.

Sam spots the Impala parked around the other side. As he circles around he can see the bullet holes and dust, and a broken headlight on the driver's side. There's black paint transfer along the serrated chrome of her front bumper, and the keys are still in the ignition. Past the car, there's a dark, open doorway.

Sam slips quietly inside and walks right into a hurricane.

A furious wind churns inside, threatening to cyclone. The air itself seems charged, spitting and sizzling, pink webs of electricity arcing off the walls. Static fills the space between, hissing from dozens of radios strewn across the room. Sam squints against the wind, one hand up to shield his eyes as he follows the line of shelves down the row, and peeks around the end, and finds Dean laughing in the eye of the storm.

Castiel stands across from him, ten feet away, wings spread full-sail against the gail. They're smaller from a distance, frayed and molted away in some places, feathers still charred from the fall, but stand tall. Cas isn't holding a weapon, but Sam supposes he doesn't need to — judging by the blue glow coming from his eyes, Cas has abandoned any pretext of trying to bring Dean in alive.

Neither of them have noticed him, but that's fine. Sam toys with the idea of banishing Castiel, but then what's to stop Dean from turning around and killing him? But if he can trap Dean first... 

He doesn't have enough salt to between both cars to circle the building, and the storm Dean seems to be generating won't let him lay one inside. What he really needs is a distraction, something to keep Dean occupied while he gets close, and then a round of holy water and some quick work with the cuffs would take care of the rest. 

Cas seems to be fulfilling that role just fine, but the trick will be to avoid getting accidentally smote in the crossfire.

Dean moves so fast Sam isn't sure he _moves_ so much as teleports, appearing behind the angel, the First Blade in hand. Castiel seems to anticipate the move, and his wings beat like a thunderclap.

The resulting gust of wind has Sam throwing up his arms to shield his eyes, and shelving he's hiding behind groans, creaks, and slowly starts to tip.

+

 _Help me, please_.

Jody takes a breath, lets it all out in a rush. She turns over, shifting under the covers, trying to get comfortable enough to get back to sleep. 

_Somebody... somebody, please._

The couch is large and well-broken in. Sam offered her his room, but the tiny concrete box felt too much like a cell for her to be at ease. The library is airy and smells like old leather, and with the day lights on, almost feels like it isn't buried underground.

_Help me. I just want to go home..._

Jody glares at the ceiling and curses before rolling to her feet.

Sam warned her about the demon. _Don't listen to it_. _Ignore it. Don't even go in the room_. She's not an idiot; she's experienced first-hand what they're capable of, the effortless way they lied, the award-winning act that would make any psychopath envious. But she's been a cop for too long and a mother not long enough to turn a deaf ear on the pleading. 

"Oh, thank God," the girl says, when Jody opens the door. She doesn't cross the threshold. "Thank you, thank you, _thank you_." 

She's tied to a chair in the center of a pentagram embossed in the floor. She's dressed in a short black skirt and a matching camisole, and is missing one of her pumps. Her dark hair hangs limp above her shoulders, casting a shadow over a fresh burn that runs from her collarbone to her temple. Jody tries and fails not to think about how it got there. 

"Help me," the girl says, eyes wide and wet. Tear tracks run down the dirt on her cheeks. She seems to notice Jody's uniform, and the gun on her hip. "Where am I? Are you — "

"Shut up," Jody says. She steps into the room, but only just. It's been a hell of a long day and if Sam's right, the next isn't going to be much better. She hasn't had a wink since the day before and it's starting to show. "And keep it shut, alright? Don't think I won't gag you."

"What?" The girl — _demon_ , Jody reminds herself — looks surprised, but Jody isn't fooled. "But you're — you're a cop!"

"Yep."

"You have to help me!"

"You ain't foolin' anybody with the innocent act, Ms. Talbot," Jody tells her — it? Whatever, she doesn't need to be politically correct with a goddamn demon. "So shut your trap, or I'll shut it for you. 'Kay?"

"That isn't me!" The girl pulls against the ropes holding her, but Sam tied them well. "I don't even know why I'm here! What kind of cop are you?"

"The kind who wasn't kiddin' about that gag."

"My name is Amanda Sellman," it says, and Jody knows the tears aren't real, but unlike the demon she's only human, and they're hard to ignore. "I'm from Wichita. I work in the giftshop at the Art Museum. I have a two year old daughter and I," the demon — girl, Jody doesn't even know anymore — chokes on a sob, sagging in her bonds. "I won't tell anyone, I swear. I just — I don't even know if she's okay." She looks up, eyes pleading. "Please, you have to help me."

"All I need to do is get some damn sleep." 

Jody wonders if it's possible. The cop in her — the decent human _being_ in her — wonders if this is just another trick, or if the demon's dead or gone and they have an innocent person tied up in a  dungeon. It doesn't hurt to check, and she sure as hell isn't getting back to sleep without knowing for sure.

Maybe it thought Jody would get close enough. Maybe it didn't think she'd listen to Sam when he told her what to do. Maybe it didn't know that Jody's met their kind before, and knows better than to get within reach. 

"Christo," Jody says, and sighs in relief when the thing flinches violently in its seat.

"Ohh, somebody paid attention in class." When the girl looks up, her eyes are black. "That _tingled_. Do it again."

"Ain't my type, sweetie. You keep it down, now, or I'll wash that mouth out with salt."

Jody's turned around and has her hand on the doorknob when the thing starts laughing. "You will be when I'm through with you, _sweetie_. You'll do whatever I want." Bela pauses to smirk when Jody casts a disgusted look over her shoulder, eyes wide and dark. "I'm going to cut off little pieces, one at a time, and hand-feed them to you until there's nothing left. D'you know how much of your own flesh I can carve off before you die?" Jody shudders, and Bela plows on with vicious twist to her lips. "I do. Your precious Dean taught me that. He taught me _so_ many things, things you wouldn't even believe. Quite the imagination, that one. But you'll find that out, too."

"You done? 'Cuz I got more important shit to do than listen to you. Like finish my nap." 

"They're not coming back, you know," the demon says around a sweet smile. "He's going to kill them both, and then he's going to come for you."

"Yeah, maybe," Jody says, and would be lying if she said the thought didn't terrify her. But she's been through enough to know how not to let it show. "But if there's one thing I've learned about those boys it's when they get to the end of their rope, they tie a knot and hang on."

+

Dean is going to kill him.

It shouldn't be possible for a demon to kill an angel in a straight fight, even on borrowed grace, but this isn't the first time Castiel has underestimated Dean Winchester; it will be, he muses, the last. Cain chose his protégé well.

Castiel doesn't bother with the angel blade at all. He can't afford to let Dean get that close; all Dean needs is one good hit and that'll be the end of it, but his weapon lacks reach and Castiel uses that to his advantage. He snaps his wings, grace lashing out like an incorporeal whip and Dean staggers back against the side of the building, the corrugated metal walls wincing against the blow. The effort drops Castiel to his knees, panting, body fighting for oxygen it hasn't needed since Metatron slit his throat and stole the only part of him that made Castiel worth anything.

The storm quiets, winds whispering down to nothing and as the air stills, Castiel can hear Dean laughing.

He lets out an exaggerated breath as he stands, not quite forming a word. A noise of appreciation. His eyes find Castiel, and he smiles. "Oh, now you're just flirting."

Castiel does not smile. This isn't even remotely funny. He doesn't respond at all, because there is no reasoning with Dean. Not like this. He's so far from himself that for all intent and purpose, he's someone else. A complete stranger.

That's what Castiel has to believe, if he's going to go through with this.

If there's one shred of his human soul left that gives a damn, Dean isn't showing it. He's favoring his left side and bleeding heavily from the temple, bright red blood glittering under flashes of pink light, but he's smiling in a way that makes Castiel uneasy. He's never seen Dean smile that like — downright giddy, bursting with twisted delight, not a care in the world. There's no telltale strain at the edge of his mouth, no insecure tilt of his brow. No second-guessing glance, no misdirection of his gaze. 

Castiel has his complete and undivided attention, just like the monsters Dean used to hunt, and it's absolutely terrifying.

"C'mon, Cas." He's toying with Castiel now, eyes bright and smile sharp. There is nothing flirtaious in his tone, no leer in his gaze like the last time they were face to face. Something deep inside of Castiel shudders and curls in on itself. "I've seen you kick the shit out entire garrisons single-handed. Is this really all you've got left?"

Castiel jerks away instinctively when Dean moves in on him, but there's nowhere left to go. Dean squats on his haunches beside him, blade hanging loosely from his right hand folded over a thigh. Dean is going to kill him. There's isn't anything Castiel can do about it, and Dean knows it.

Dean shoves him down, flat on his back, straddling Castiel's sternum in one fluid motion and holding him there. His weight is warm, solid — _human_ — thighs stretched over Castiel's ribcage, knees wedged under his armpits. Castiel tries to inhale, diaphragm pushing against the solid flesh of Dean's legs. He reeks of rage and blood and sulfur. The demon inside him bares its teeth, and spreads its wings.

"You should've just let me be, y'know, but," Dean says, and Castiel raises his arm on reflex when Dean brings the blade up, but it seems Dean's enjoying the monologue; he lets Castiel grab his wrist and keeps talking. "You came out here to kill me. No, don't," he interrupts before Castiel can deny it. "It's cool, man. I get it. I'd try to kill me too, if I were — well, y'know. _Me_." 

His grins widens. Castiel's arm is shaking as Dean uses his left hand to pull it up, wrenching Castiel's arm as he leans down, until he's a foot from Castiel's face. Castiel's palm is shaking flat against Dean's forehead and a bitter part of him wants to prove Dean wrong, wipe that smug smirk off his twisted face in a blaze of holy fire, wants to burn out those black eyes for good. The wrath of Heaven roars inside his vessel, itching for release, sparking and hissing under his skin.

When Castiel had pulled Dean from Hell, Alastair had already stripped away so much of humanity. But there had been something left, a trace of a soul left to repair. They were almost too late, _almost_ , but his garrison had gotten to Dean in time, Castiel had been able to coax what little remained of his humanity back from the abyss. Even after Hell, Dean never stopped sacrificing, and the world just kept taking until he had nothing left to give. 

And Dean kept on giving, taught Castiel about love and free will and that there were some things were worth falling for. And Castiel had fallen, time and time again, in every way imaginable. 

When Castiel looks at him now he sees nothing but darkness and chaos. The blue glow of his grace reflects in Dean's black eyes. 

He can do this. He _has_ to. 

It's what Dean would want.

Dean waits, grin growing with every breath the world takes around them, until Castiel can't stand it and closes his eyes in defeat. His arm goes lax in Dean's grip, and only then does Dean let his hand fall. Castiel feels him move closer, flinches when he feels hot breath by his ear, words curling toxic between them. "Hester was right." Dean's hand moves up his chest, palm sliding flat against Castiel's collarbone, fingers curling loosely around his throat. The seductive touch makes Castiel's skin crawl. "The first time you laid a hand on me in Hell, you were fucked."

When Castiel opens his eyes, he finds Dean seated firmly on his midsection, eyes as black as the dark beast lingering like a shadow beneath the skin.

"Do you have any idea how long you can spend dying?" It's rhetorical, but Castiel thinks about it anyway, thinks about the pain Dean can inflict, the pain Castiel can endure in this host before there's nothing left to shred. Dean's hand slides lower, palm flat over his navel, nails scraping through the thin fabric of his shirt. "Do you have any idea what I'm capable of? You didn't watch, when you had me Zero-Dark-Thirty Alastair. You should've. I always put on a good show."

Castiel catches his wrist before it goes lower. He won't give into this, into this _thing_ , whatever else his faults may be. If he's going to die, it's going to be on his terms.

Dean sees the resistance and smiles, edge of his mouth sharp as a knife. "Don't worry, Cas. I like you. I'll make it quick. Even after _every_ time you screwed me over..." He shrugs, as if it's all forgiven just like that. "Shit, if we had the time," he looks Cas over, licks his lips. "But I got places to be, people to waste."

That should be the end of it, but it isn't, because Fate's got a twisted sense of humor and from some dark corner of the room, Castiel hears a faint scrape of fabric-on-concrete. Dean's index finger, tracing lightly over his jugular, pauses. Castiel opens his eyes and Dean's head tilts, distracted. There is only way this situation can get worse; Dean only has laser-focus like that for one thing: _Sam._

"Dean — " he attempts, throat working against the hand still around his throat, but Dean holds the blade over his lips to silence him, eyes still trained on the darkness around them. He watches the shadows a moment, then grins that horrible smile that reminds Castiel of a predatory cat stripping skin off a fresh carcass. Only then does his gaze flicker back to Castiel, human eyes Castiel never thought he'd see again, pupils blown wide inside pale green rims. He licks his lips.

"Hold that thought, Thursday." 

Dean's gone before his breath hits Castiel's face, and even though his weight's removed, Castiel can't move. He needs to, needs to get Sam and get him out of here, because Castiel is fairly certain that Dean Winchester killing his brother is one of the seven paradoxes that ends the universe as they all know it.

Something in the air shifts and Castiel assumes it's Dean, taking his time in the dark because this is _fun_ , hunting Sam while Sam hunts him. Castiel isn't a threat, not anymore — _never was_ — even as he forces himself to his feet, wings dragging heavy behind him. He doesn't search for his weapon because why bother, when he won't use it. The only thing he can do right now is find Sam before Sam finds Dean; or worse, before Dean finds _him_.

Sam finds Dean first and unlike Castiel, doesn't hesitate; he plunges the knife deep into Dean's side and Dean screams, fire lighting up his skin from the inside, and falls to his knees. Sam reaches for his brother's wrists, but Dean twists, drops lower, and sweeps Sam's legs right out from under him.

"Was wonderin' when you'd show up," Dean says as he sits up. He pulls the knife out gingerly, wincing, and tosses it aside. He shakes his head as if to clear it; Sam tries to sit up, but Dean simply raises a hand and Sam slams back down with a curse. "Can't ever leave well-enough alone."

"You don't have to do this," Sam bites out, then swallows down a scream, his whole body jerking in pain as Dean closes his fist. 

"That's for trashing my car," Dean tells him, and releases his hold. Sam gasps down a few breaths as Dean stalks over, then curls in on himself as Dean kicks him in the ribs, hard; Castiel can hear his ribs crack from across the room. "And _that_ is for being an ungrateful little shit your entire life."

"Dean — " 

Dean kicks him again, uses the movement to spin around and raise a hand, throwing Castiel back before he can reach him. "Don't worry, Cas. You'll get your turn."

Sam's crawling towards the knife, snatching it up as Dean catches the movement. Dean grabs him by the ankle and drags him back, dropping a knee down on on Sam's arm. He leans low over his brother and brings the blade over his chest, point down, and Castiel is helpless except to watch as Sam tries to block the blow one-handed.

"Shhh, Sammy, relax," Dean says, taunting. "I promise, this time you definitely won't come back. Just like you wanted."

Neither of them seem to notice the sudden stutter on this plane, but Castiel does — perceives the cosmic shudder as it rolls past, the air freezing in place and shattering, the earth quaking beneath them. The ringing starts off quietly and builds, sounds echoing off one another other until they fill the space, brutally loud to the point that Castiel's head feels like it's going to combust under the pressure. Amputated stereos and headlamps hiss and flash to life, filling the room with static and light. 

The light grows, bleeds in through the gaps in the building until it washes out everything, and Sam gets a reprieve as Dean shields his eyes — it's that, or go blind.

Dean pulls his hand pull back, preparing to thrust, and the the world explodes.

When the dust settles, the entire side of the warehouse is gone, and Dean with it. Beyond, the empty field is littered with shrapnel from the building and the piles of cars blown away in the blast. The hold on Castiel drops, and he stumbles as gravity reasserts its hold. 

The light condenses to a point between the brothers and as it comes into focus, says, "Why don't you pick on someone your own size, asshole?"

Dean pulls himself to his feet; one side of his face is scraped raw with dirt and blood. The blade is still clasped tightly in his right first. He stares at Gabriel, and Castiel can't tell if he's surprised or hesitating. Perhaps a little of both. Gabriel still occupies the same vessel, but is adorned in the armour bestowed upon the warriors of Heaven, one hand clasped tightly around the holy glaive twice his height that Castiel hasn't seen in an age. Gabriel's wings are larger still, tawny red and razor sharp against the dark sky. 

The last time Castiel saw Gabriel like this, fire was falling from the heavens, burning away every last trace of sin.

Castiel lets out a breath he wasn't aware he was holding. It does nothing to loosen the knot in his chest. Sam is still sitting splayed on the ground, staring at Gabriel's back with wide eyes. "You!"

"Oh, please, are you really surprised?" Gabriel doesn't take his eyes off Dean. "You wouldn't know foreshadowing if it came up and slapped you in the face."

"The candy wrappers." Sam says, slowly standing up. "The radio? That was — "

"Who do you think patched your sorry asses up?" Castiel moves towards his brother, but Gabriel holds out a hand. "Where do you think you're going? Grab Sam and get outta here."

Castiel looks at Sam, but Sam isn't moving, eyes fixed on the archangel. "What are you going to do?"

"What neither of you are willing to," Gabriel says, and grabs the glaive with both hands as Dean cracks his neck, eyes black and grin wicked. The blade is still grasped tightly in Dean's hand. "What the fuck are you waiting for?" Castiel looks back to see Gabriel staring right at him. "Take Sam and whatever grace you got left and _go_."

"No." Sam walks right up to Gabriel and stands at his side, eyes on his brother. He looks incredibly small. "I'm not leaving. I'm not giving up on him."

"Did Azazel also drop you on your head as a child?" Gabriel twists the glaive in his hands, and Sam steps back as the blade swings past his face. "Your brother was about to — "

"I don't care!" Sam looks at Castiel, but Castiel has nothing to offer. Gabriel is right. "I won't give up on him, not this time. _Because_ I'm his brother."

"You're an ungrateful pain in my ass, is what you are," Gabriel says. "At least — "

Whatever he says next is lost under a deep roll of thunder; the clouds swirl in the sky, threatening to cyclone, pink lines of electricity crackling between them. Lightning strikes, twice, three times, bolts shadowing Dean's steps. 

Dean stops a couple yards away from Gabriel, limbs loose and a twisted smile on his face. "You just don't know when to stay dead, do you?"

"Pot, kettle." Gabriel extends his wings, feathers splayed stiff like sails against the building wind, and steps in front of Sam. "Let’s skip the foreplay, shall we?”

Dean smirks and flips the blade in his grip, point towards his elbow and sharp edge parallel to his forearm. “Damn, that’s my favorite part.”

Castiel barely gets to Sam in time to pull him back and fly them out of the way, taking shelter beside what’s left of the warehouse where the Impala sits parked.

Dean moves so quickly that Castiel is sure Sam's human eyes won't be able to follow. Gabriel lets Dean come, blocks the blow with the handle of his weapon and slams back, knocking Dean out of range. Sam curses and tries to pull away, but Castiel uses whatever strength he has left to hold him back, because this is out of their hands, now. The moment Gabriel entered the picture, Dean's fate was sealed.

Castiel was not exaggerating when he told Dean that archangels were Heaven's most terrifying weapon. 

Dean shakes it off, jumping right back into the fight and getting close — too close — clipping a wayward feather, and Gabriel's wings snap down like a thunderclap. It cuts a hole in the storm raging in the sky overhead, rays shining down through the break from the setting sun, surrounding Gabriel in a ring of fiery light. Dean shields his eyes against it and barely gets his weapon up in time to block Gabriel's next strike. 

The sound is piercing. Beside him, Sam winces, hands coming up to cover his ears. Dean lets out an inhuman snarl and is engulfed by a shadow of black wings, ends curling like smoke. Gabriel swings down again and again, tendrils of grace swirling around him, building until an explosion of white light that knocks Dean off his feet.

Dean never hits the ground, though — he vanishes before he makes impact and reappears beside Gabriel, and Castiel makes the executive decision to do as Gabriel commanded. He has to get Sam out of here before he gets caught in the crossfire. 

"Don't you fucking dare," Sam snaps, when Castiel turns towards him. He's unarmed, but raises his hands, as if he could defend himself. "I'm not leaving."

"Sam — "

"You take me away from here the first thing I'll do is kill you." Sam says it calmly, but his eyes are pleading. He abandoned his brother once, and now they're facing the consequences. As far as Sam is concerned, this is his fault. If Dean kills him, so be it. "I will _not_ leave him. If you care at all about him, neither will you."

"Even if I had my grace, I don't have the power to stop Gabriel." And Gabriel will not stop until he's killed Dean, or as good as. Castiel cringes as another explosion of light fills the abandoned yard with light. "What do you propose we do?"

"Dean's distracted, so use it," Sam says, squaring his shoulders. He squints against the light, and hands Castiel the demon knife and the  cuffs he brought along, inscribed with runes. "Let me worry about Gabriel."

The both duck instinctively; Gabriel jams the butt of his weapon into the ground and it creates a sonic boom, and Castiel grabs onto Sam before he falls as the shockwave passes. Energy blasts out in a cone aimed directly at Dean, flattening everything in its path.  Castiel brings up his wings to shield them both as row upon row of scrapped cars tumble to the earth, sending steel and shrapnel everywhere.

When the dust settles enough that they can see, the junkyard is laid bare, and Dean is crouched in the center, bloody and snarling. The ground beneath him begins to smoke, charring beneath his feet as he moves, red lines of fire branching out like a hellish spiderweb. The lightning storm overhead surges to follow the demon below it, covering the space in darkness. Heat rolls off it in waves, and the very ground beneath their feet grows warm with hellfire. 

Castiel breath catches; he doesn't know when or how Dean learned to harness the power of Hell, but Crowley clearly has had more influence on Dean than either of them suspected. 

Gabriel's eyes widen as he watches the ground scorch around Dean, and spreads his wings. Castiel forcibly turns Sam around before he ends up blinded by the sight of Gabriel's trueform shining through, a swirling vortex made of infinite light, six wings framing a snarling jackal and screaming raven as he ascends. Castiel braces them both as Gabriel raises his weapon and dives, slamming  the point of his glaive into the ground.

The ground shudders and smolders, and within one heart-stopping breath of a moment,  white-hot lines of fire whip and swirl across the ground before extinguishing in a hiss, and the storm above them sputters out.

"What," Sam starts, and seems to figure it out the same time Castiel does; scorched deep into the ground, the size of an amphitheatre, is a massive devil's trap with Gabriel at its center. 

Dean is trapped inside — only just, but it's enough. He bears his teeth and raises the blade as Gabriel stands, jerking his weapon out of the dirt. They can hear them, now that the noise of the storm is gone. 

"Surprised you didn't open with that." Dean sounds utterly unconcerned. "Done screwing around, huh?" 

"The whole Super Saiyan routine's fun and all, but, y'know," Gabriel shrugs, but there's a smile in his eyes. One wing still hands a little crooked, burned down to the bone where Dean landed a glancing blow. "I got better things to do than kick your ass into next week."

Dean licks his lips and starts to circle him, slowly closing the distance. "I don't need Hell's help to kill you," he says, twirling the blade in his hand and strolls, seemingly unconcerned that inside of that trap, Gabriel can flatten him with a glance. "You might pack more of a punch than the rest of those flying assmonkeys," Dean smirks as Gabriel stiffens, grip tightening on the staff in his hands, "but all I need is one good hit."

Gabriel opens his arms wide. "Bring it on, Dutch."

Dean doesn't get the chance. Before Castiel can stop him, Sam throws himself between Gabriel and his brother, hands raised.  Gabriel narrows his eyes. "Out of the way, Sammy. The adults are talking."

"No," Sam says, voice shaking worse than his hands. "No, just — listen to me, you can stop him, but that doesn't mean _kill!_ "

"I said _get out of the way_ ," Gabriel snaps, and lashes out.

Sam stumbles as Gabriel beats his wings, knocking him back into the dirt. He doesn't get up.

Gabriel turns his gaze on Castiel and grow wide when he sees the blood on Castiel's fingers, sees the symbol inscribed in the dirt between his knees. "Castiel, you wouldn't _dare_ — "

Castiel slams his palm down in the center of runes, and closes his eyes against white-hot expulsion as his brother is banished.

Dean staggers under the force of it, but manages to keep his balance. His hands are resting against his thighs, the blade still clasped in his right fist. His face looks as if he ripped into still-breathing prey; half his face is bathed in blood, draining down his chin and neck. Castiel is amazed his jaw is still attached to his skull well enough to be smiling.

The mark on his right arm burns bright against his skin, pulsing in tune with his vessel's heartbeat. He spits out a mouthful of blood before straightening up, wiping the excess away with the back of his hand. His eyes are still trained on the space Gabriel occupied before Castiel cast spell. "Your big brother is raging a pain in my ass."

Castiel pushes to his feet. "Dean — "

He forgets whatever he was going to say when Dean's eyes shift, deceptively human again, and focus on him. He doesn't look giddy anymore, just homicidal and determined. "You really should've stayed gone, Cas."

It takes a herculean effort not to back up when Dean leans in. The blade is held loosely at his side, but it only takes an instant for that to change. Castiel has to move quickly, has to keep Dean distracted; he's only going to get one chance, and it may just be the last thing he ever does.  "I think," he says, forcing himself to meet Dean's eyes, "we've already established I don't have the best judgement when it comes to you."

Dean pauses — he isn't moving, but Castiel can feel the demonic train of thought shift. It reminds him so vividly of Crowley it makes him ill. Dean tilts his head, still predatory, but considering. "No," he agrees, and there's the grin again. Castiel keeps his eyes on Dean's, and feels rather than sees a hand snake over his shoulder, feels a warm, sticky palm rest against the back of his neck. "You really don't."

"I'm sorry," Castiel says, and leans in to meet him.

Dean tastes like blood and chaos. He tilts his head and opens his mouth, and the point of the blade shifts away from Castiel's sternum. The hand on the back of Castiel's neck squeezes, fingers curling in his hair, and Castiel opens his wings.

Castiel uses the momentum of the landing and Dean hisses into his mouth as his back connects with the nearest wall. Even now, Dean pulls him in, lured by the burning heat of grace and drunk on lust and adrenaline. 

Dean attacks with sharp, hard cuts of his teeth and Castiel answers with soft, gentle sweeps of his tongue. He closes his eyes to the world and God's will, and exhales.

The flash of grace has Dean pulling him in harder, grip tightening in Castiel's hair but it's violent, like a terrified animal backed into a corner with no choice left except to fight. But it's too late; the demon inside spits and snarls at the very heat that drew it in, and Castiel takes Dean's head in both hands and holds him firmly in place.

He can see the light bloom behind his eyelids for a second before the perception shifts, expanding into dimensions beyond the third, and the world ceases to turn.

Castiel inhales and opens his eyes.

The vessel he's come to think of as his own is the first thing he sees, bloody and lifeless on the floor. It's ragged and too-thin, dark bags under blank, sunken eyes. Tight pain lances through his chest, as sudden and severe as angel blade driving into his heart. Bile rises unbidden in his throat, and Castiel forcibly swallows it back down. 

He shivers and wonders if the panic is his own, or Dean's.

Something on his right forearm aches like a pulse, and his fist tightens, unbidden, around a handle. Castiel drops the blade, startled. The ache dulls, synchronizing with his vessel's heartbeat until it fades entirely.

Castiel's mouth and throat are sticky. A soft buzzer goes off to his left from the war table, vibrations tickling the shell of his ear. He brings up new hands and studies them, flexing fingers at their joints. The structure is similar, but at the same time so different it leaves him feeling strangely...adjacent. Disconnected. The human equivalence to light-headed.

He lowers his hands, and the shadow of a soul trapped inside with him starts to scream.

Castiel grabs blindly until his hands find the back of a chair. The demon is relentless, attacks with a pulling, _violent_ tearing; a visceral contrast from the clinging embrace of the last time they shared the same space, and the nausea returns with a tangible vengeance. His entire body trembles as the demon howls and fights for control. Castiel tightens his hold until the wood splinters under his palms, gasps in pain as teeth find a hold and bite down. 

He looks up into the mirror hung on the opposite wall. His eyes are expressionless, blank, face still spattered with blood from the fight. Something claws at his chest, sinks its teeth into his stomach and _pulls_ , as if attempting to rend him from the inside out. It reminds him of the Leviathan, turbulent and furious and fighting to break free.

But it isn't like it was, before; this vessel is _strong_. It was made for Michael, the most powerful of them all. It can hold Castiel and the demon without strain, could hold every soul in Heaven and Hell without fracturing. He closes his eyes and lets his grace stretch, pushing the demon back and filling in the spaces it leaves behind. Reaches out for something that isn't there anymore, grasping blindly in vain. 

Castiel stares at a reflection he doesn't recognize and a chill washes over his new skin while the demon rages inside.

The sound of wings makes Castiel look up, and finds Sam and Gabriel standing in the war room. Sam takes one look at the body on the floor and makes an aborted movement, as if forcibly holding himself back. He looks at Castiel with wide eyes and when he speaks, the words come out as a whisper. "You didn't."

It doesn't immediately occur to Castiel that Sam thinks Dean has killed him; that he's looking at his brother, the demon, standing over Castiel's own dead vessel. "I'm sorry," Castiel says. "I had to."

Sam blinks, and he must sense something is off, but Gabriel suffers no such delusion. He stares at Castiel like he's never seen him before. "Castiel, what have you _done?_ "

+


	10. Chapter 10

 

**weapon of choice**

* * *

 

ix.

 

When the angels came, they brought with them a fierce heat that rivaled the rain of fire falling from the sky.

Dean rallied against the blinding white light and whirlwind of golden wings as hard as he'd fought Alastair. He found his calling, here in the Pit — to hurt and kill without remorse or restraint, to strip away every ounce of guilt by carving it out of the souls tethered to the racks, and endless supply of victims for every ounce of pent up rage and frustration. It felt good. It felt _pure_. It felt like coming home.

The angels laid siege and Dean took up arms with the demons, stood his ground when he was cornered. For three decades he withstood every torment Alastair threw at him, until pain and pleasure blurred and Dean couldn't tell them apart. For ten years, he ripped souls to pieces trying to forget it, to redefine that line, to carve out the part of him that cared with every slice of Alastair's blade.

The archangel was too bright to look at in its true form; Dean caught glimpses of faces with too many eyes, the sharp edge of its halo, a powerful beat of six golden wings. The overpowering heat of its presence washed over him. He felt it beckoning, and lunged.

He was ready to die, ready to cease to exist entirely. It was the only way to truly escape.

When it pulled away he wanted to scream, to tear after it until it had no choice but to engage, to smite him from this existence.

The bright light faded away and was replaced with one smaller and warmer, soothing where the other was aggressive, suggestive where the other was demanding. Something about it was eerily familiar, simultaneously unnerving and calming, like an existential deja-vu.

When the angel reached out Dean let him come, and Hell faded away beneath the soft embrace of immense black wings.

+

Jody wasn't happy to be stashed on the other side of the bunker with a mouthy Bela, but Sam didn't have time to explain (" _When do you ever?_ " Jody snapped, but waved him off). Gabriel nearly smote Bela then and there, but Sam still isn't sure what Crowley's endgame is and if this doesn't work, she might still have some use.

Cas pauses at the door to the recently vacated dungeon, both hands braced against the wall as if to hold himself up. Sam doesn't have to ask to know Dean's fighting him; the demon cuffs around his wrists clink together as he shivers. "I'm okay," he says, when he catches Sam watching him. "I am trying to heal him before I — my brother did a lot of damage."

Sam winces, but appreciates the effort. If they fix Dean while his body's broken, there's no guarantee that Gabriel will stick around to reverse the damage. "If you're worried about — why didn't you take him to an abandoned church or something?"

"Somewhere secure was my first priority." Dean — Cas, it's _Cas_ , this is so fucking weird — slants a glance over his shoulder at Gabriel, still following a few steps behind them. His wings are folded behind his back, but still drag along the edge of the walls and ceiling behind him. "Consecrating ground isn't terribly difficult for an archangel."

Gabriel rolls his eyes. "Just because you're comfortable blaspheming all over the place — "

"Really don't have time for this," Sam snaps. Gabriel narrows his eyes, but Sam is pretty sure if Gabriel was going to hurt him, he would've just let Dean finish the job. "Can you or can't you?"

With a truly indignant huff, Gabriel disappears in a flurry of feathers. Sam winces and clamps both hands over his ears, nearly brought to his knees by the high-pitched crescendo of sound that follows, and a white light flashes through the tiny gaps of the doorframe. Sam's ears are still ringing when the door bangs open on its own and Gabriel strides through, sans the armor and the wings. He's still holding his weapon, though.

When he reaches for Dean — _Cas_ — Sam jerks forward on instinct to put himself in between them, but Gabriel swats him aside like he's made of paper. "Relax, Butch Cassidy." Cas' expression pinches as Gabriel lays a hand against his forehead, and in the time it takes Sam to blink, the blood that was caking his jaw and neck are gone, along with any visible wounds. "I suggest you strap in the Sundance Kid before he extinguishes what's left of my little brother."

"Right. Thanks. And look," Sam says, removing the hand he braced on Gabriel's shoulder when that amber steely gaze snaps to him. "You mind hanging around for a bit?"

"Sure, why not, it's not like I don't have anything more important to do than to watch this soap opera unfold." He pauses in turning away, and looks back at Sam. "You can't do it yourself." He doesn't raise his voice, but Sam winces anyway. "If you think you can load him up on your blood and it won't count as completing that suicide trial you started, think again."

Sam didn't even think of that, but shit — if he can't do it, who can? It's not like they have a lot of friends left that owe them any favors. "Then we can hit a blood bank, or something."

"Someone close to him will be more effective." Gabriel sighs, and Sam relaxes a fraction. "What about that adopted martial figure you've got baby-sitting your teenage hellspawn?"

Jody would do it if he asked, Sam knows she would, but he doesn't know if he can. "Jody's a friend, but... I don't know. I'd rather do it myself.  It's not like I'm asking to borrow a DVD. It's kind of a big ask."

The look Gabriel gives him almost makes Sam take a step back. "And watching you kill yourself isn't?"

The archangel vanishes before Sam can muster a reply to that. Sighing, Sam sets back to helping Cas into the dungeon. "What the hell is his _problem?_ "

"He's angry."

"Well, yeah, I got that — "

"Not at you," Cas says. "I took possession of a vessel without permission. I am frankly surprised you're not furious."

Sam holds the question until he's got Cas in the center of the circle. The devil's trap embossed in the concrete floor is made of pure iron, and should be more than enough to hold him, but Sam isn't taking any chances.  "About that... how _did_ you, y'know, without — is it because he isn't human?"

"You pose a very interesting philosophical question," Cas comes back with. "But it's less of a universal rule and more of a holy proclamation. A principle laid down by our Father, when we first were ordered to descend to Earth to protect his creations." He shudders again. "You need to work quickly, Sam. I don't know how much longer I can hold him."

It's fucking weird listening to Cas talk using Dean's voice; while Sam isn't exactly looking forward to getting Dean's demonic ass back in the driver's seat, at least it'll be _Dean_. He pulls a few things from the cabinet and gets to work. "You're telling me the only thing stopping an angel from possessing a human without consent is _principle_?"

Cas shivers again, and Sam is sure it isn't from the straps that he's securing over Dean's forearms. "A principle that even Lucifer didn't dare defy when it came to acquiring _his_ true vessel."

Well, when he put it that way... Sam squats beside the chair, and waits for Cas to look at him. "Gabriel was going to kill him," Sam points out. "You saved his life, Cas."

Goosebumps roll across Sam's skin in a wave as Cas opens his eyes to reveal black framing a dull blue glow, the only tell that Cas is still — barely — in control. "At what cost?"

Sam can't hold his gaze, and claps a hand on his knee as he stands. "We've both done worse to save one another. I'm not saying it's okay, but it is what it is. We'll figure it out." He stands back to survey his work; the chair sitting in the middle of the devil's trap is also made of iron, the straps securing Dean's wrists and ankles are salt-soaked leather inscribed with enochian symbols, and his wrists are still secured by the cuffs. It's more than they bothered to use with Crowley. "Okay, that should do it, if you want to, uh." Sam trips over finding the right words. _Vacate my brother_ seems inappropriate, however pertinent.

He's saved having to spell it out, and shields his eyes against the light as Cas does just that; a bright, twisting spiral of white snaking through the air and out the open doorway. Sam closes the door and stares at it, unwilling to turn around until he has to. Once Cas has gotten back into his body, taken what time he needs to recover well enough to function, then they can set about figuring about how to fix Dean without killing himself in the process.

It doesn't take long. Dean lets out a low, nasty chuckle at his back, the sound echoing in the small chamber. Sam braces himself, turns around, and finds himself looking at black eyes.

"Holy shit, Jimmy wasn't kiddin'," the demon says, flexing his shoulders against the bonds. Testing them, Sam knows. "Life as an angel condom really is like being chained to a meteor. Gadreel ever take you on that ride, or did he keep you locked up in the Matrix the entire time?"

If it wasn't for the black eyes Sam could swear it was just Dean. _His_ Dean. He's barely been in this room thirty seconds and Dean's already creeping him the fuck out. "I didn't know about Gadreel until Crowley."

Dean's eyes glitter at the mention of Crowley's name and Sam shoves down the urge to hit something. "What was that like? Getting DP'd by an angel and the King of Hell?"

Sam knows he shouldn't engage, knows that it isn't his brother talking, but he hasn't spoken to Dean in _weeks_. "About as much fun as you'd imagine."

"I dunno, man, I feel like I got jipped," Dean says. "Gadreel, Crowley, _Lucifer_ ; you've had a whole host of supernatural shit up your ass, and I get a busted angel on his last wing? Story of my fucking life."

"Gadreel and Crowley were _your_ doing," Sam snaps and too late, realizes he walked right into a trap.

Dean smiles, slow and easy. "You never did thank me for saving your life. _Again_. But it's cool, dude. You never do. You realize _every_ single time my life has taken a turn for the worst it's because of some fucked up shit you did? It's kind of like our running joke — you do something stupid, I fix it, you hate me for it..." the left edge of his lip curls up, sharp, "but it's really not funny."

Sam closes his eyes and prays for patience, and wonders if there's anyone even listening. "So, what, you thought you'd turn it around this time? Take the mark, get yourself killed, and hate me for trying to fix you?"

"I'm not _broken_ ," Dean snarls — really snarls, a deep, inhuman sound that reverberates off the stone walls. "If you really care about me, you'll leave me be. I'm _happy_ , Sam. I haven't felt this good... well, _ever_."  His eyes are normal, now. Human. Sam sucks in a breath and looks away. "Why the fuck would you want to take that from me?"

Sam closes his eyes. "This isn't happiness, Dean. It's a high. That's all it is."

"Well, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you?" Sam's eyes snap open  and just like that, the black gaze is back. "Y'know, I could give you all you wanted like this. You and me, man. We could burn this world to the ground. The Boy King and the Righteous Man. Hell of a band name." Dean smiles, tongue following the sharp, wicked curve of his lower lip. "You wanna taste, Sammy? I promise you, I taste _good_."

The words wash over Sam like ice water; he shivers, and shakes his head, trying to clear it. "You _are_ broken. You just don't remember — "

"I remember _everything_." When Sam looks at him again, there's no smile on his face now. Dean looks deadly serious. "I remember it all, Sammy. Every time you ran off, every time I had to explain to Dad why my little shithead brother decided _his_ happiness was more important than my fucking hide. You know what else I remember?"

"Dean — "

"After you ran away to California, Dad never said a word to me again outside of necessity. 'Go here, kill this, burn that. And clean the fucking car.'" Dean laughs, short and bitter. "I remember thinking that was fine, because whatever, right? It's the only thing I'm fucking good at. At least little Sammy has a future." He scoffs, uses it as cover to flex his arm and test his bonds. "I remember the first time you got yourself killed, begging a crossroads whore to bring your ungrateful ass back. Going to Hell for you and playing bitch to Alastair for longer than I'd actually _been alive_. I should thank you for that, by the way. I was a decent killer before, but after Hell? Shit."

He smiles again, and it's worse than the blank sort of psychotic expression he was wearing before. "The things I can do now. _Have_ done. And I enjoyed it, Sammy. All of it. I didn't want to _leave_. And not because I thought I didn't deserve it. It's the only other time I can remember feeling this good."

"Bullshit," Sam says, but is it? He doesn't even know anymore. "You weren't yourself. You're not yourself _now_."

"Did you take a second to think that maybe this _is_ me?" Dean asks, and Sam won't. Can't. Because then there's nothing left of his brother to save. "Maybe this was always me, and you just never wanted to see it."

"Maybe you're just a lying sack of smoke," Sam snaps back. He'll cling to that as long as he can. Dean thinks he remembers, but he's looking at it through one-way glass. He can't remember half of his life, because he's incapable of understanding it. "You can't remember what you can't make sense of, and you can't — "

"I can remember my soulless little brother letting me think he was dead for a year, and then feeding me to a vamp. Having to court Death to get his fucked up soul back for him. I also remember letting the only one thing I loved in this world that _wasn't_ you give himself up to save you."

Sam flinches, and Dean's smile grows. It hurts because it's true, and truth seems to be Dean's weapon of choice. Even tied down and powerless, he knows exactly where to cut to inflict the most pain and simultaneously leave Sam intact to draw it out as long as possible.

When Cas died in that lake, Sam eventually put it together and realized that maybe he didn't know his own brother as well as he thought he had, saw what Dean was trying so hard to numb with whiskey. "You don't even know what that word means anymore."

"Oh, but don't I?" Sam looks away, because they've both seen proof that demons can love — Sam isn't sure if it's the same, but Sam's never bothered to ask, and wouldn't trust the answer if he had, anyway. "Maybe demons are just less fucking stupid about it."

"Funny way to show it by trying to kill us."

"Hey, I told you not to hunt me." Dean shrugs, like that makes it okay. "You act like you're so much better. Whatever, man. Do I even need to mention Purgatory?" Wow, Dean's just milking it, isn't he? It wouldn't hurt so much if he wasn't fucking _right_. "Didn't even look for me. Didn't look for Cas. Didn't even pick up the goddamn phone when Kevin was calling. How selfish can you possibly be, Sammy? He was just a _kid_."

"Fuck you." Sam knows it's stupid to engage, but it comes out like a reflex. Dean grins, and it's a weird look on him. _Gleeful_. The sort of smile Sam hasn't seen since Dean got over the novelty of pranking his fellow students in high school. "I was alone, Dean. And I was _done_."

"Oooh, you were alone. My bad. Here I thought I was the chronically codependent one."

"Fuck you."

"Well, hey, if you insist," Dean says, and Sam shudders involuntarily. Fucking demons. "Little hard to manage while I'm hogtied, but, if you wanna — "

"Sam," Cas calls from the doorway, and Sam has never been happier to see him.

Dean redirects instantly. "Just in time for the party, Cas. We all already know you're game. I got enough orifices for both of you, so — "

Sam is seriously thinking about shoving a salt canister down his brother's throat when Cas is suddenly between them, and low on juice or not, the air in the room spits and sizzles when he speaks. "I would prefer not to gag you, but will if you insist on being licentious."

"Kinky," Dean says, but thankfully it ends there. He does blow Castiel a kiss, though.

"You shouldn't engage him," Castiel says when they're in the hallway, behind the safety of an iron door. "He is vying for any advantage."

"I know." It's hard, though, because this thing looks like his brother, sounds like his brother, has all the memories of his brother. It _is_ his brother. It's horrible and most of it's true but Dean would never say those things, never _mean_ them. "It's not him — "

"No, Sam." Cas sighs, looks towards the door like it's insulted him personally or something. "It _is_ him. It's just him without a moral filter. That's the problem."

Sam sets his jaw. His glances at the door without meaning to, can hear the low murmur of Dean talking to himself beyond it. "Even if he's right, he's still wrong."

"That makes no discernable sense." Yeah, thanks, Cas. "You should take a break," he adds, and lays a hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam shifts, unused to the touch. The only person Castiel has ever touched without purpose is Dean. It's strange, but not unwelcome, and Sam sags a little. "I'll keep an eye on him."

"All right," Sam says, because he's got an archangel to interrogate and a damn big favor to ask. All Sam wants to do is take a nap, but it won't be long before Crowley comes for Dean. He stops Cas with a hand to his elbow before he opens the door, and says, "And when you need one, you come find me, all right?"

Cas regards Sam for a moment, then at the door, and turns away. Sam can still hear Dean laughing when he closes the door.

+

The field in Kentucky has been reduced to a mile-wide patch of scorched earth.

Dozens of cars are embedded in the ground like small, rectangular meteors. The sky is clear, but still heavy with static and the scent of ozone, as if someone had yanked the stratosphere down low. It takes some effort to crack through the outer ring of the devil's trap, burned so far down into the ground that Crowley may as well be opening a grave.

The old Continental is still smoking from a wayward smiting, a charred husk of steel and melted cheap vinyl. The Impala, however, sits besides three-quarters of a warehouse, dusty and bullet-ridden, but miraculously unscathed. If he didn't know any better, Crowley would suspect the damn car having a guardian angel of its own watching over.

Sirens are trilling in the distance, dispatched by the nearby town to answer reports of an explosion, an earthquake,  a tornado, and — according to the local bedlamite —  an Act of God (if Crowley rolls his eyes any harder, he's going to pull a muscle). Still, too close to the mark for his tastes. This system only works if they have the plausible deniability on their side, and too many mundane eyebrows would raise at the spectacle the last surviving knight of hell and archangel left behind.

The ground shifts and shudders under his gaze. A little water here, a little erosion there, and gravity does the rest. The gaping hole in the earth is deep, disappearing into darkness, taking all evidence with it.

Half an hour later, Crowley is tipping back what passes for top-shelf scotch at the local pub, and smiles when the local news headline _Massive Sinkhole Outside Dexter Swallows Local Scrapyard_ flashes across the screen.

+

Son of a _bitch_.

Dean's been tied and trussed his fair share of times, but Sam isn't fucking around. The devil's trap is problem enough, and the cuffs aren't doing him any favors. The straps holding him to the chair are just overkill. Dean can't even slouch, much less shift to adjust the uncomfortable crease working its way up his crack. Sam is _literally_ being a pain in his ass, and not in the fun way.

He shifts his attention to the lone figure in the room, and is instantly distracted from the discomfort by the fact that Cas won't meet his eyes. "That was a real nasty trick, Cas. Didn't know you had it in you."

Cas does look at him then, as expressionless as the first time Dean saw those eyes under the shaft-broken light of a full moon. "I did what I had to."

"Hey, fair enough. Can't say I saw it comin'." Dean licks his lips. He fought hard, but the angel had shut him up tight inside his own vessel, intense heat rolling over him like molten lava, suffocating under a kind of love that defied definition. The confirmation was anticlimactic; the possession, though — _that_ had surprised him, enough that by the time he knew what was happening it was too late to fight it off.

The dungeon is underground and cold. Dean shivers; he misses the angel's warmth. "Old me, he'd be pissed. Outta all the fucked up shit you've done, that's probably the only one he'd never forgive. But the new me? Well," the smile comes naturally, "I'm actually kinda proud."

The angel doesn't move, but Dean sees the shudder roll through him, a small ruffle working its way down his wings like a wave formed of feathers. Dean wonders what it would've felt like, having those wings.

Cas lets out a breath Dean suspects he's been holding since Sam closed the door. "I wasn't being facetious about the gag."

"Oh, come on," Dean goads, because if Cas gets close enough to gag him, that's close enough to hurt him. "What happened to enjoying our talks? Our time together?"

But Cas doesn't come any closer, just eyes Dean from outside the circle, cheeks prickly with several days growth and dark circles beneath bright blue eyes. His hair is a disaster, but Dean prefers it that way. It looks like he just got finished a marathon round of fucking, and it's giving Dean all sorts of nasty ideas.

The angel flexes his shoulders, and the wings vanish. "Our time together ended the moment Metatron thrust his blade through your heart."

Dean rolls his eyes and his head with them, and winces at the bite of the cuffs around his wrists. "All things considered, that asshole did me a favor. Don't get me wrong, I still plan to give him the Winchester Special I perfected downstairs, but I'm getting real sick of the pity party." Seriously, what is so hard to them to understand? Don't they remember what it used to be like? What _he_ used to be like? He can't figure out why anyone would wish that on him, especially people that claimed to care about him. "I'm telling you, man, I feel great. I'm _awesome_."

"Because you don't know how to feel anything else," Castiel says, pacing the width of the room. "You aren't capable. But you will be, and you'll understand. I raised you from Perdition once. I can do it again."

"What if I don't _want_ you to?" In his peripheral vision, Dean watches his shoes skate the edge of the devil's trap as he moves slowly back and forth. "When have I ever done anything for me? It was always _dad this_ or _Sammy that_ or _saving people, hunting things_ , and for what? All I did was give, even when I had nothing left. I've earned the right to be selfish."

"It isn't a choice if you can't recognize the other option."

Dean recognizes the other option; he remembers being human, even if he can't remember why he made some of the choices he did. Every choice he made only seemed to hurt him or the people he cared about, but he supposes that logic explained why Sam and Cas had him locked down in here. They just didn't _understand_. "I don't want it back," he spits, pulling fruitlessly at his bonds. "I remember it all, Cas, and I swear to whatever deities are still listening, if you make me — I will _never_ forgive you that."

Cas stops directly in front of him and looks him over with cold eyes. "That's a risk I'm willing to take."

His chest feels tight, and if he had to breathe Dean might be worried about it. "Every risk you've ever taken has come back to bite you in the ass," he snarls. "Trusting Metatron, trusting Crowley, not trusting _me_. Disobeying Heaven for my sake, pulling me out of Hell to begin with. Aren't you seeing the pattern here, Cas? You always make the wrong call. You have a worse track record with decisions than _I_ do, and that's saying something."

"Be that as it may," Cas says, but Dean sees the uncertainty in his eyes.

The chair scrapes against the concrete as Dean tests his bonds again. "What's the hold up then? Sammy out draining a civilian? Or waiting for the last of that grace to snuff out and drain whatever's left to turn me back?" A muscle ticks in Cas' jaw and Dean grins. "If you don't like the company, you can always wait in the hallway."

But apparently Cas knows better than to leave him alone, even if it means bearing whatever Dean throws at him. Sucks to be him, because Dean's got a _lot_ of ammunition.

"I figured you of all people would get it," Dean starts, when it's clear Cas isn't going anywhere. It's not like he's got anything _else_ to do. "You were human for a hot second there. Ditched that downgrade as soon as you could, though not much good it did you. Tell me, Cas, how did it feel the first time you went to sleep hungry? How did it feel to be all lost and alone and cold? How did it feel when April lured you in and turned on you?" Cas' expression darkens and he keeps his mouth shut but that's okay, Dean's got more where that came from. "How did it feel when you thought you were safe and with friends and I kicked your ass back out on the curb?"

Cas inhales and looks away; _checkmate_.

"It was Ezekiel, you know. You remember good ol' Zeke? Well, Gadreel, really, but whatever. He's the one who told me you had to leave. Said he'd kill Sam if I didn't kick you out, and can you believe I actually listened to that douchebag? Hell, if you'd stayed," he sees Cas wince and smiles, "I'd be free one life-burdening ungrateful shit of a little brother. And probably got myself laid."

"You did what you had to," Cas says, tone all reasonable and shit, like Dean cares about how it made him feel. "Just like I am."

"Yeah, 'cause you got such a great resume for decision making." If Dean's going down, he's going down swinging. "What d'you think, Cas? Would you've fucked me for another one of those microwave burritos?"

+

Gabriel paces  the length of the war room and wheels on Sam the moment he's over the threshold. "Crowley was right," he snarls. Without his wings, his vessel is small enough that Sam is almost fooled into complacency. "They were _all_ right. Hester, Alastair, Uriel — your brother is a _curse_. Everything he touches, he — "

Sam may have just seen Gabriel literally rain down holy fire from Heaven, but he has had it up to his ears with angels and demons judging his brother. "You really wanna play the blame game?" Sam doesn't realize he's shouting until he sees Gabriel blink and take a step back. "You've got a lot of nerve. It was _your_ family that started this! You want someone to blame? Where the _fuck_ have you been?"

Gabriel's lips pull back over his teeth in a sneer, but Sam doesn't let the excuse get out and shouts right over him. "Where were you when Cas was fighting _your_ war against Raphael? When he was so desperate for help he went to Crowley of all people? When he was so hopped up on souls he went off the deep end trying to replace your deadbeat dad? When he lost his damn mind trying to save _me_?"

It all comes rushing out, all of it, how _dare_ this asshole stand there and judge them? "What about when Cas and Dean were trapped in Purgatory, huh?" he snaps. "What about when Metatron cut out Cas' grace and the angels fell? Where were _you_ when he was human and fucking homeless, and my brother had to hotwire a goddamn angel into my skull to keep me alive?"

The archangel stares at him, but doesn't open his mouth. _Good_. Because short of admitting he was just a fucking coward, there isn't anything he can say. "I don't care what cardinal rule Cas broke or what it means to you or how it makes _you_ feel, okay? He did what he did to help me, to help _Dean_ , because we've been more of a family to him than you ever have!"

"I didn't come for Cas!" Gabriel snaps, and a few of the overhead lights pop and go dark. It's enough to shock Sam into silence while Gabriel continues. "You think this is about him? About your brother? Newsflash, Sammy: this is about _you_. If you pulled your head out of your own ass for five minutes maybe you'd have noticed it's always been about you!"

"What?" Sam is six hours past exhaustion and can barely keep himself upright, much less deal with more of this angelic melodrama. "This — this is _not_ about me. This is about Dean, it's — it's about the mark, and whatever the fuck Crowley is up to, he — "

"Oh my god, seriously?" Gabriel rolls his eyes and tosses his hands in the air. "For _me_ , asshat. This is about you _for me_. You think I really give a shit if your brother murders the world?"

Sam blinks. He's pretty sure he missed something, there. "But you just — we have to — "

Gabriel slaps a palm to his face. "Lord in Heaven. Do you really need me to spell it out?" Gabriel only pauses for a beat before rolling his eyes. "Of course you do. I'll try to use small words so you _fucking understand_. I'm in this for you, you asshole. I don't care what happens to your brother, and to be honest? I don't know why I give a damn what happens to you, either. You're important, but not _that_ important. Not to the world, not to the _universe in general_ , could you be more conceited? This galaxy and the next will tick along just fine with or without you, without Lucifer and Michael and _Cas_ and _Dean_ and God himself. But right here and now? Why I showed up at all? Yeah, genius. It's _you_."

Gabriel takes a breath and reaches for the back of a chair to steady himself, and it's such a human gesture that Sam sinks right past pissed off into worried. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"It was supposed to be Lucifer," Gabriel says. He's lost whatever gusto he had in the outburst, and sinks heavily into the chair by the table. "Before the snake got into the garden, before Cain and Abel, before the great war. Michael had Dean, Lucifer had you. Your bloodlines, anyway, but in the end it would always be you two. We were supposed to — it was supposed to be _paradise_ , y'know?

"God didn't create Man in _his_ image, he created you in his children's. _Ours_. You were what we were supposed to be, God's creation 2.0. You know how they tell you to never buy the first release? Second batch has all the bugs worked out. We were imperfect in our perfection; you were pure in your flaws."

"Okay, look," Sam says, taking the seat opposite. "It's been a long fucking week, and you're — I mean, I get it, I guess? But what does that have to do with — "

"Lucifer screwed it all up. You're right about that much." Gabriel scans the room, eyes something over Sam's shoulder, and waves his hand. The bottle of scotch appears between them along with two glasses; Gabriel carefully pours a glass and offers it to Sam; Sam shakes his head. "Suit yourself," Gabriel says, and drinks straight from the bottle. "I never asked for this, okay? And when Dad left and Michael took over, I just... I didn't think it mattered any more. Archangels are weapons. We don't _watch over_. Look what happened to the fucking Grigori," he shudders when he says the word, and Sam almost asks, but the question can wait for another time. "Even when the time came, Michael just pawned it off to poor Cas. You weren't supposed to be my responsibility."

Sam watches him take another swig, eyes tracking the dark liquid as it churns through the bottleneck. "You're saying Lucifer was supposed to watch over me?"

"He did, in his own way." Gabriel eyes the bottle as if it's insulted him by being half empty. "Azazel and Brady, your kid friend and your prom date. _Ruby_." He pauses, and when Sam catches his gaze, there's a depth to those hazel eyes that reminds Sam just _what_ he's sitting at a table with, a creature of pure energy and unfathomable age and power, less of a being and more of a cosmic force that also just happens to be a smartass most of the time. "Without Lucy around, _someone_ upstairs was supposed to keep an eye on you. Raphael only cares about Raphael, which only left yours truly. But I left long before you were so much as a concept, and when I did find you again... I tried, okay? You think that six month Dean-less vacation was just for fun? Hell, even I'm not _that_ much of an asshole. I was trying to prepare you. I knew what was coming. I just convinced myself I didn't care."

On second thought, Sam slides the glass over and downs it. If Gabriel is saying what Sam thinks he's saying, it's enough to keep him awake for weeks, whiskey be damned. "So what, _now_ all of a sudden you give a shit?"

Gabriel glares at him over the neck of the bottle. "Maybe I should've let him kill you. Maybe stopping him was my snake in the garden, just like pulling your brother out of Hell was Castiel's. It was never part of God's plan for his sons to have some epic showdown and burn half the planet. It was certainly never His plan to bring you two into it. That was all just," he takes another long swig and shrugs, "I don't even know anymore. What was supposed to be, what the big plan was. Maybe that's the big secret, maybe there never was any _plan_ , maybe we've just been making this shit up as we go the entire time."

"Maybe you're right." Sam pushes his glass back, and Gabriel tips the bottle to refill it. This kind of conversation is mind-bending even on a well rested, sober mind, but fuck it. He's earned it. "But what does it matter now? All we've got is this," he waves a hand to encompass the here-and-now. "You get a longer view, but the basics are the same. You have to decide what's important to you and focus on that. Protect and cherish it, right? Because there's a lot of shit you don't have control over, but you can control the choices you make. Just, make sure they're good ones."

Gabriel gives him a long look, then proceeds to drain the rest of the bottle before speaking again. "Dean's telling you the truth, you know," he says, letting the empty bottle _thunk_ heavily on the tabletop. "He's better off as he is. For the first time in that guy's life, he's _happy_. He'd leave you alone, if you let him go."

Sam doesn't answer, just swirls the last of his whiskey around before downing it.

"Right. Protect and cherish," Gabriel intones, and glances heavenward. "Well, you have fun with that. From what I've heard, there's a few unfortunate asses upstairs that need a good kicking." He stands, but pauses before vanishing. "I meant what I said before, that you can't do it yourself. You might've kicked the worst of the trials, but you still completed the first two. You fix your brother, it'll still slam the doors on Hell and it _will_ kill you."

Sam shrugs, too tired to really let the words sink in. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"You sit here lecture me on what's important," Gabriel mutters, rolling his eyes. "You think your brother's just going to bounce back to whatever he had passing for normal after the ride he's had? That the past couple of weeks'll roll right off? Please. When has it ever been _that_ easy for you?" With an idle wave of his hand, the empty bottle and glasses are gone. "Sure, by all means, go off and kill yourself. See how well your brother does without you _or_ Castiel around to keep him straight, especially with that mark on his arm."

"About that — " Sam starts.

"Sorry, kid, I don't have _all_ the answers. But I can tell you this much; Cain only kept straight for one thing, and one thing only. The way things are going," Gabriel takes a breath, and there's enough of a shudder to it that it gets Sam's attention, "Dean isn't going to have that for very long."

"Cas is gonna be fine," Sam grits out. He has to be, because Sam knows Gabriel is right. "But if you want to help, you could have a conversation with that asshole Metatron while you're up there about what he did with Cas' grace."

"I'll see what I can do." Gabriel raises his hands over his head and stretches, cracking a couple of bones along his back. "Worst case scenario, it'll be just like the old days, you two idiots against the world. What could possibly go wrong?"

"Hey, wait," Sam says, startling to his feet. The blade is right where Dean — or was it Cas? — left it, lying innocently on the floor between the war room and the library. "While you're out, could you — "

Gabriel jerks back like Sam thrust the blade in his face rather than simply called his attention to it. "No," he says, voice cold.

Sam's eyes water when his brows pinch. "What? Why the hell not?"

Gabriel's eyeing the blade like it might explode in his grip. "You've seen _Lord of the Rings_ , haven't you?" He looks up at Sam, and shakes his head. "There's a reason they had a couple of half-wit Hobbits take the damn thing to Mount Doom."

"I'm a little busy, here," Sam snaps.

"Keep it secret, keep it safe?" Gabriel suggests.

He disappears with a flutter that causes a small tornado of loose paper, and Sam glares at the empty space he leaves behind for a long moment before cursing at the empty air. He doesn't have time to stash it now, and God knows where Dean left the damn lockbox. He supposes it can wait. The sooner they get this started, the better — and while he might not be able to do it himself, they're not completely out of friends yet.

Jody raises her eyes from the book in her lap when Sam comes into the library.  Bela is still trussed up in the corner across from her, eyes narrowed over the gag Jody secured around her mouth. "I don't suppose you want to tell me what _that_ was about," she says, closing the book. "Or who the hell that was, at least?"

"Maybe later," Sam says. He finds a shelf out of view and buries the blade behind a row of dusty old encyclopedias. It won't keep Dean from finding it, but he was raised too paranoid to just leave the damn thing laying out on the table. Jody's still waiting for an answer when he comes back into view. Sam sighs. "He's a friend. I think."

"You think?"

"He's not part of the problem," Sam rephrases, turning to face her. Jody raises an eyebrow. "He's done more good than harm, on the whole."

Jody gives him a long look, then shrugs. "Guess that's all that really matters, these days."

 _Amen to that_.

She must see the hesitation, and raises an eyebrow. "What now?"

"I kind of have a big favor to ask." Sam scrubs a hand through his hair.  "When's the last time you went to confession?"

+

"Between you and Sam ditching me left and right, it's a wonder I didn't stick the barrel of a gun in my mouth years ago." Dean smirks when Castiel flinches. "Don't get me wrong; I'm glad I stuck around. What a fucking waste that would've been, eh?"

Castiel has been in the room for forty-seven minutes. He assumes Gabriel is long gone, and that Sam has taken their other human companion through the necessary motions. There's a few local churches that would do and, failing that, a confessional phone service Sam found online.

"Can you believe I used to think I was a useless piece of shit? That no matter how many people I saved, I was doing more harm than good? I might've talked a good game, but I had lower self esteem than a fourteen-year-old girl."

Dean hasn't stopped talking since Sam left, and shows no signs of slowing down. There's an undercurrent of vicious euphoria tickling at Castiel's senses, a side-effect from occupying its vessel. It's making Castiel uneasy; he feels no trace of Dean here, the parts that made him human, the white-hot signature of his soul that Castiel could always hone in on.

"Guess the only one who really had me beat was you," Dean rambles on. "I might've thought I wasn't the air I breathed, but I never considered taking the easy way out. Even I wasn't _that_ selfish. Not like you, Cas. Worried you'd slice your own throat rather than take responsibility for what you did to Heaven."

Castiel is considering slamming his head into a wall just to distract himself when the door mercifully bangs open.

"Hey there, Sammy," Dean redirects without missing a beat. "I was starting to think you'd forgotten about us. _Again_. Not that I mind in this case, but — "

Sam doesn't answer Dean, just brushes past Castiel, takes Dean by the hair and yanks his head to the side. Jody only hesitates for a moment jabbing the needle into the exposed flesh of his neck, depressing the plunger in the same motion. It happens so quickly that Dean doesn't react with anything except a curse.

His brother steps back, but Jody stands in front of the chair, bracing her hands on her thighs. The needle is still clasped in one fist. "When your brother died," she asks him, "how did it make you feel?"

" _Ow_ ," Dean says pointedly. "Hi to you, too."

Jody glances at Sam, but he nods, urging her on. She repeats the question.

Dean ignores it. "It should tell you somethin' that you're the only person they could scrounge up to do this." When Jody straights to fold her arms and tilts her head, indulgent, Dean curls his lip and leans forward as much as the bonds will allow. " _Run_. Our friends tend not to last very long. Get the fuck outta here while you still can, darlin''."

Jody leans down low, close enough that Castiel steps forward to hold her back, but Sam shakes his head. "How did it make you feel, Dean?"

Dean blinks, lips curling at the edges, and his eyes are black when he answers: "Not a goddamn thing."

Jody stands back, eyes finding Sam's over Dean's snickering. "Again?"

"Not yet," Sam says, stepping around his brother. "Gotta give it some time." He pauses and glances at Castiel. "Cas, you should take a break. We got this for now."

Castiel hunches his shoulders, wings invisible and heavy along his back. "I'm fine."

"You look about as good as you did with all of Purgatory up your ass," Dean chimes in. "I mean, I'd still be down, but a shower wouldn't hurt."

Sam looks at Castiel and Castiel sighs. He is suffering the slow death of a dying grace; there's no way to gauge how much time he has left in any literal sense. He can only feel himself grow weaker and more exhausted, which would be a frankly terrifying experience if he had not spent time as a mortal. It feels similar to dying from starvation; his movements are slow and heavy, his vision blurs and his eyes sting, his head aches with a consistent, heavy pounding. Eventually, he knows, he will simply extinguish, a fire without any fuel left to burn.

He doesn't know if he'll last another eight hours, and isn't entirely sure if he would want to be here at the end to face a cured Dean after what Castiel has done him, given the choice.

"Cas," Sam says, and Castiel blinks and his vision clears. "It's all right. Go. I'll call you when it starts working."

So Castiel does, closing the heavy iron door on Dean's laughter.

+

"When you brother died, how did it make you feel?"

"You know that tingly feeling you get after taking a dump?" Dean snarks. "Sammy getting ganked was like taking the biggest shit of my life. It felt _awesome_."

Jody scowls and turns around to mutter, "Are you sure it's working?"

"It takes a while," Sam assures her. It's only the third dose, after all. He didn't get much of anything from Crowley until towards the end. "You need a break?"

Jody scoffs and lightly cuffs his elbow. "I've had tweakers and drunks sling worse shit at me from behind bars. I'm good." She glances at Dean, then back at Sam. "We should probably check on your angel, though," she says in an undertone. "He didn't look so hot."

"Go, I'll watch him," Sam says, and claps her lightly on the shoulder as she raises her eyebrows in question. "Make sure he eats something."

"PB&J if you want into his pants," Dean calls helpfully as she opens the door. Jody thankfully doesn't ask, and closes it with a heavy _clang_. "So, tell me, Sammy; have you hit that yet? I honestly haven't been able to figure it out." Dean grins at the look Sam throws at him on reflex. "What? I just want to avoid another Annie Hawkins sitch."

Sam knew this part wouldn't be easy, but he didn't quite anticipate how hard it would be to stand here and listen to Dean — what Dean has _become_ — use everything they'd been through together, good and bad, and throw it back in his face with no filter. Sam could gag him between doses, but the best way to see if it was working was to listen for when the humanity began to creep back in.

"Pretty sure Dad nailed her, too," Dean goes on when Sam remains silent. "I wonder if we got any other siblings lying around."

Sam just hopes it doesn't take too long, because he isn't sure how long he can listen to this.

"Guess we'll find out when Michael finally pulls a Shawshank and needs another meatsuit, huh? After all this time, shit. Adam's gotta be trashed beyond repair."

"What?" Sam says, whirling around. "What do you know about Michael?"

Dean watches him, unblinking, creepy-as-shit smile still in place. "Do you remember what it was like? With Dad, when you were little? Or did you just block it out?"

This _is_ his brother, Sam knows, misdirecting because Sam's caught on to something. Sam moves towards him, closer than he probably should. "What did Crowley tell you?"

"You did, didn't you?" Dean keeps smiling, right in his face, and Sam can see the shadow of his own reflection in those black eyes. "He'd disappear, days or weeks at a time. Once, when you were five, he was gone for a month and a half. The motel was only paid up for the month, and when I tried to pay the rest in cash, they called Child Services." Dean leans back in his seat, slouching. "Couldn't wait around for that bullshit, could I? No, Dad would pick you up and leave my ass in the system if I let _that_ happen. Spent the next two weeks playing musical cars at the Chevy dealership, sleeping in backseats."

"I don't want to talk about Dad," Sam snaps. "Tell me about Michael."

"I thought it'd get easier when I got older, y'know? Sonny's wasn't so bad. Only decent sonofabitch I ever ran into on the road. I woulda stayed, too, if it hadn't been for you."

"If Michael gets out — "

"He'll _what?_ " Dean snaps, and the sound cuts through Sam like a whip and he startles back a step. Dean grins. "Michael doesn't scare me, Sammy. Not sure what does, anymore. Hell, when Dad finally let me go on hunts, I was so surprised. I had no _idea_. The shit we were killing? They were evil, sure, but they weren't nothin' compared to the monsters I'd met trying to feed your sorry ass."

Sam grits his teeth. "Dean — "

"There was this one guy, Sammy, I swear," the edge of Dean's mouth curls, sharp. "I woulda taken Dad over this guy any day, but he paid well, and someone had to fucking feed you. Left me bloody in the bathtub, but at least tossed a dime on the dresser on his way out the door. I spent every fucking penny of that shit on you, did you know that?"

 _Demons lie_. Sam knows it, lets it repeat on his head in a loop. Dean doesn't want to talk about Michael or Crowley and Sam has to _focus_.

"And y'know what? None of that shit even compares to what I've given up for you since Dad left," Dean carries on, a seductive purr in the darkness. "Lisa, Ben, _Cas_ ," he spits the last word. "I gave up my soul for you years ago, man. You had your own tour in Hell, You know what they do to you down there. I didn't have a wall, or some angel to suck the bad outta me. I just had to _live_ with it." He smiles suddenly, bright and toothy. "But it's cool, dude. It all worked out in the end."

"This isn't _the end_ ," Sam snaps, and is perturbed that Dean doesn't flinch, doesn't so much as blink. "We're going to fix you, whether you like it or not."

Dean just laughs. "Who are you trying to convince?"

When Jody returns, Sam is so happy he could kiss her. "Angel's on guard duty," she reports. "It's been about an hour. Good for another go?"

It can't come soon enough. Sam suffers through four more hours of _how did it feel?_ followed by Dean's smartass comments, laughter, and eye-rolling. It's easier, with Jody here; Dean has more than one target, and can't seem to decide who he likes berating more. Jody is true to her word, though, and lets the abuse roll off like water off a duck, though she's looking a little pale as she loads the eighth dose.

Sam steadies her when she pulls back from Dean, empty syringe in her fist and wavering on her feet. She shakes him off, quietly determined, and steps around Dean. "When Sam died, how did it make you feel?"

Dean tilts his head back to look her in the eye and spit, "How'd you feel when Sam put a bullet between your brat's eyes?"

Jody's fists tremble, the syringe needle vibrating in her grip as Sam pulls her out of range. "I'm fine," she bites, but Sam carefully removes the syringe from her hand, regardless. "It's been _hours_ , when the hell are we supposed to know if it's working?"

"If it ain't broke — " Dean begins, and cackles.

Maybe they're going about this the wrong way. There's been a lot of bad blood between the two of them (mostly his own fault, Sam is aware), and Dean's using their history like a weapon and knows exactly where to poke to get a reaction. But Sam isn't the only person Dean cares about.

Sam jerks his head to the side and Jody follows, rubbing her arms while Dean starts singing _Like A Prayer_ in the background. Sam rolls his eyes — it's better than the Bon Jovi he was intentionally singing off-key earlier thereabout dose five.

"I don't know how much more of this I can take," she mutters, then adds: "The blood loss, I mean. I don't care what he says. Like you said, it isn't him."

 _Isn't it, though?_ Sam shakes it off. "I have an idea."

" _Just like a prayer, you know I'll take you there,_ " Dean sing-songs as Jody approaches again. He grins broadly and casts his eyes down along her body. "I'll take you there all night long, sugar."

Jody doesn't rise to the bait, but leans in close enough that it makes Sam uneasy. "How did it make you feel, Dean," she asks, "when Castiel died?"

Sam shivers, sudden and violent as the temperature in the room plummets. The lights in the room flicker and Dean raises his head slowly, eyes clear and blinking bright in the sporadic light. "Lookin' a little pale there, sweetheart. Careful. They'll bleed you dry if that's what it takes."

Jody ignores the taunt and presses, "How did it make you _feel_ , Dean?"

Dean shouts, sudden and violent, voice breaking on the last word: " _I don't want to remember!_ "

As if on some galactic cue, the door to the room creaks open and Dean's eyes are still human as he redirects to the figure silhouetted by the light of the hallway. "I will _never_ forgive for you this."

Cas looks sick, and Sam wants to feel bad for him, but he's too full of relief to conjure up space for pity.   _It's working_.

Jody looks relieved to see the angel. "You tapping in for a few rounds? Sam could use another nap."

"I'm okay," Sam says. He’s exhausted, but he doesn't want to leave Dean alone now that they've seen some progress. "I'll be — "

"Someone should watch our other guest," Cas interrupts, nodding at Sam as if volunteering him. "Bela won't speak to me, but you knew her, when she was human. She likely knows more than she's admitted to."

It sounds perfectly logical and makes complete sense and Sam hates it. But then again, it was asking about _Cas_ that got a reaction out of Dean. "Fine," Sam says. "But only if you," he points at Jody, "eat something."

"Twist my arm," Jody says, rolling her eyes. She pats Cas on the shoulder, "You good to babysit for an hour?"

Cas looks past her to Dean, hands braced tight against the arms of the chair, eyes dark and dangerous. "Yes."

Sam hesitates only a moment before closing the door on his brother and his angel, breathing a huge sigh in the privacy of the hallway. "It's working," he says, more to himself than Jody. "You think you can manage a few more hours?"

Jody yawns in answer, taking heavy steps towards the kitchen. "You said something about food?"

"Yeah, here," Sam directs her towards a seat and starts digging things out of the cabinet and fridge. Jody stares at the pile of food on the counter; a box of brown rice, a can of black beans, a bottle of orange juice, and a box of frozen spinach. "Winchester patented blood-loss breakfast of champions. Drink some water, too, but the food is iron-rich and the OJ'll help your body absorb it faster. You good to cook?"

"You guys have the weirdest life, you know that?" Jody says, but she gets up and grabs a pot.

"Okay," Sam says. "And you should take a nap, even if it's just half an hour — "

"Go on, git," Jody snaps, shooing him out with a ladle, " I don't want my breakfast interrupted by that demon bitch getting loose."

+

He's eight years old, standing in front of a burning pyre. His father is there, stood to his left, silent as the fire pops and spits and flames lick the sky. Sam is asleep in the car, and he's grateful for that much, at least. It smells sharp and musky and makes him wrinkle his nose. His father says he'll get used to it.

_How did it make you feel, Dean?_

He's eighteen when Sam runs off to Flagstaff. Dean doesn't sleep or eat for two days, but Sam is smarter than Dean gives him credit for and Dean can't pick up the trail. He finally goes back to the motel to crash, mindlessly exhausted, and wakes up to the sound of the Impala pulling up outside the room, cold terror hooking into his chest at the sound of the car door closing and John's heavy boots outside the door.

_How did it make you feel, Dean?_

He's twenty-eight when Sam dies. Dean remembers the shadow over his shoulder, the look on Sam's face when the blade found home. He was too late, despite the false reassurances he hissed into Sam's ear as they both knelt in the mud.  He knew a killing blow when he saw one.

_How did it make you feel, Dean?_

Dean grits his teeth until his jaw aches, but the memories persist over the pain, bringing a tidal wave of emotion with them.

+

"How're you feeling?"

Castiel doesn't need to ask as much as he's fishing for an answer. It's taken longer than they thought for a demon so young, but Castiel isn't surprised. Dean has always been exceptional in every way. The intelligence he consistently undermines, able talk his way out of almost any situation and, failing that, improvise a battle-plan on the fly; the strength of his mind and body, extreme thresholds of pain both emotional and physical; the overwhelming burden of responsibility, whether to his brother or friends or complete strangers; the selfless way he put others before him beyond the point of recklessness. His capacity for love.

Things beginning to re-emerge from the darkness consuming him, rising like the ride; too slowly to notice until it was too late.

Dean keeps his eyes on the wall. There's a crack that runs the length of room, parallel to the floor. Dean's been staring at it for the better part of an hour, utterly silent. It isn't petulance, just a determined sort of focus, the demon's own way of resisting what they were doing to it.

He pulls a chair opposite Dean, just outside the devil's trap, and sits in it, blocking Dean's view of the wall. "Take all the time you need."

The look Dean shoots him gives Castiel the uncomfortable urge to shift. "I take back what I said earlier. When I get out of here, I'm going to spend _years_ killing you."

Castiel would deserve it. "How do you _feel_ , Dean?"

The chair rattles as Dean shivers, fists white-knuckling against the armrests. "Why do you keep asking me that?"

"Because it's important," Castiel replies calmly. Dean will no longer meet his eyes. "Tell me what you're feeling."

The only sound in the room is Dean's breathing — which is strange, since Dean doesn't need to breathe. "I," Dean starts, shakes his head, and tries again. "I don't know. I don't — I don't _fucking_ know, okay?"

Castiel waits until Dean's labored breaths even out before asking, "Does it hurt?"

Dean's shoulders hunch, reminiscent of a vulture at roost, as he physically withdraws from the question.

"It's strange," Castiel continues, when no answer is forthcoming, "how emotional pain is often more severe than the physical. I was familiar with the latter. I could endure it to great lengths. We were made to. Pain doesn't disable us like it does humans. But doubt?" Castiel resists shivering at the memory, when he first started to question God's will. "Anxiety? Despair? Heartache?" Dean does look at him then, if only to glare. Castiel meets his gaze evenly. "It's terrifying, and yes, painful. You never understood, what it was like for me."

"What it was like for _you?_ " Dean snarls.

"Yes," Castiel says. "When I Fell for you."

Dean doesn't look away, but doesn't speak for several minutes. Castiel maintains the silence and waits.

"You're an idiot," Dean snaps, after a time. "Nothing is worth this."

This time, it's Castiel who has to look away. "You are."

"Bullshit. If you cared about me, you'd let me go. You'd leave me _be_. I can't — I don't _want_ to live like that. I _can't_ , Cas. I'd rather be dead."

"I'm sorry," Castiel says, and means it.

"Fuck you." Dean lunges in his seat, the chair screeching against the concrete. "Who're you to decide what's best for me? You and Sam, you go on and on about how I don't know any better, how I _can't_ decide for myself how I want to be — when the fuck have I ever done _anything_ for myself, huh?" He slouches back in his seat, chest heaving, and casts his eyes at the ceiling before looking back at Castiel. "You two have done nothing but let me down. Betrayed me — at least Sam had the excuse of missing his soul, but I guess you don't have one of those either. And you have the nerve to say you _love me?_ You're so full of shit."

"You don't need a soul to learn to love," Castiel points out. "You may not forgive me for this, but I'm willing to live with that."

"Yeah? Must be an easy call, since you ain't got much longer for it."

"The pain will ease  with time."

Dean rolls his eyes. "Save me the _it gets better_ speech, okay?"

His chest is rising and falling rapidly in contrast with his flippant tone. Castiel wonders if Dean yet has the capacity to understand the panic he's experiencing, the anxiety, grabbing onto his chest like a vice. Castiel can empathize; his own memory of learning these emotions was distinctly unpleasant.

"It doesn't have to be like this," Dean goes on, casting his eyes around the room as if he's lost track of Castiel, even though Castiel hasn't moved. His eyes are still clear. "You don't have to die. If you let me go — "

"I have accepted my fate," Castiel says. "You should make peace with yours."

"Let me go," Dean repeats. "Take me to Heaven and I'll get you to Metatron. You don't have to _die_ , Cas. I can make him talk. I can make him do whatever we want."

Castiel pauses, hands tightening into fists at his sides. "Even if you could — "

"It's not an _if_ ," Dean snaps. The jolt of anger is swift, cutting through Castiel like a blade. "We can do it together, man. Me and you. Nobody could touch us. We can get your grace back. _Yours_. Wings, halo, the whole nine. C'mon, Cas," Dean meets his gaze, and his eyes flicker, like bulbs in a haunted house, "it's not like it'd be the first deal with a devil you've ever made."

"Bargaining," Castiel says, and watches the black fade away, and the anger with it. "You're making progress."

A timid knock at the door pulls Castiel's attention away from Dean's curse. Jody pokes her head through the door, short hair skewed sideways from what was, Castiel hopes, a nap. "Hey," she says, coming in, "ready for round nine?"

Castiel glances back at Dean. "I think so." Dean only glares. "Are you going to fight it?"

"To the teeth," Dean snaps back.

"Very well," Castiel says, standing up. He is not so weak yet that he cannot hold Dean, delicate but firm, securing Dean's head to the side even as Dean spits curses at him. Jody raises her hand to stab, but Castiel says, "Gently."

Jody raises an eyebrow, but administers the syringe with more care, slowly depressing the plunger as the needle works its way into Dean's jugular vein. Castiel can feel the muscles in Dean's neck and shoulders stiffen, heart picking up pace as the human blood enters his body, slowly forcing the demon to retreat further with each dose. It hurts almost as much as Dean's terror, rising like a tangible thing, sweeping through Castiel and making him shiver.

"Home stretch," Jody murmurs to Castiel before stepping around to face Dean. He keeps his eyes averted until Castiel angles his head forward, forcing him to look at her. "When Sam died, how did it make you feel?"

There's a pregnant pause before Dean answers; Castiel feels the tremor in his voice through the hands he has on Dean's jaw, the cold sweat breaking out along his skin, the sorrow brewing beneath it. "Helpless. _Useless_. What was the point?" Dean shakes hard, causing Castiel to let go and Jody to step back, but Dean doesn't lunge, just hangs his head. "I had one fucking job, _one_ , and I managed to screw it up."

Jody looks up at Castiel, and for the first time since Castiel has met her, she looks shaken.

Castiel reaches out, tentative, and Dean starts at the light touch but doesn't flinch away. Emboldened, Castiel grips his left shoulder, and maybe it's the memory of that first touch that has the muscles relax, dissipates the innate panic into something else. "Please," Dean says, and there's a visceral tug inside Castiel's chest, a dull pain lodged in his throat. "Don't make me do this. I don't _want_ to be that guy again, Cas."

Swallowing doesn't dispel the discomfort, but Dean needs to focus and it's Castiel's job to help him, whether Dean wants it or not. "Sam dying wasn't your fault."

"He was my responsibility," Dean says. "If that red-eyed bitch hadn't taken the deal, I would've — "

What he would have done, Castiel never finds out — he feels the shudder through the small tether of his hand and Dean's shoulder. Something pricks at his senses, annoyingly out of reach when he tries to find the source, like an ever-moving shadow hiding in peripheral vision.

A plane of time-space shifts, warps, and for a beat the world ceases to spin on its axis.

In the cosmic hush of the universe holding its breath, Castiel hears a distant howl. The lights flicker, spitting in their sockets. Castiel tightens his grip and Dean says, voice as dark as the dungeon, "You really should've taken the deal, Cas."

+


	11. Chapter 11

**second star to the right**

* * *

  


x.

  


" _Do what you want, but you're never gonna break me. Sticks and stones are never gonna shake me_ , _oh,_ " Bela sing-songs, and tops it off with a hideously off-key, " _whoa-oh._ "

Sam may have suffered Hell at the hands of Lucifer himself, but as Bela opens her mouth wide to start the chorus over again, he slaps his palms flat against the table — he thought _Dean's_ taste in music was annoying. "Will you knock it the fuck off?"

"But I'm _bored_ , Sam," Bela complains.

"And I care, because?"

"Because when I'm bored I sing annoying American pop music." She gives him a wicked smile, eyes crawling over his body from feet to chest. "I mean, there're _other_ things I do when I'm bored, but it'd be more fun if you untied me first."

"Fucking _demons_ ," Sam mutters. "If you're bored, then maybe you want to tell me exactly what the hell Crowley intends to do with my brother."

She shrugs, the movement limited by the ropes around her chest. "Above my pay grade."

"Yeah, right," Sam says, leaning back. "Since when is anything above _your_ pay grade?"

"Took a bit of a demotion, going to Hell," she snips back, flicking her short hair. "Climbing the corporate ladder in Hades takes a bit longer, what with the incomprehensible depth and homicidal competition."

"No more silk sheets for you, huh?"

"Well," Bela shifts as if to cross her legs, like she's forgotten she's tied down. "Let's just say that rolling naked in money isn't quite as satisfying as rolling in warm blood these days." She smirks at the look of disgust on his face. "Don't ask questions you don't want the answers to, Sammy."

"Doesn't it bother you?" Sam asks, getting to his feet. Sitting down for too long is dangerous when he's this exhausted. "That _that's_ the difference between the old you and," he waves his hand vaguely in her direction, "this?"

"No, not really," Bela chimes back. "You think I miss that? Having to eat? To sleep? To shave my sodding legs?" She rolls her eyes. "Not to mention worrying about some paranoid buyer putting a bullet in my back. Don't act so scandalized. Humans were always this way, but you have all these rules and _morals_ dictating what's wrong and what's right. All these little self-imposed restraints, impossible ideals you try to live up to. We're what you were meant to be. Humanity at its best."

"At its _worst_ ," Sam corrects. 

"That's your objective opinion, is it?" she asks. "Who're you to decide which is which?"

" _Human_ , for one thing," Sam snaps. "And — "

"The one with a _soul_ ," Bela interrupts. "You let your emotions guide your moral compass. Where has that ever gotten you besides one heartbreak after another? Do you even _remember_ the hot mess your brother was?" Sam stiffens and she must catch it, from the way her grin grows. "That bloke had more issues than Cosmo. Hell set him free; you should've seen him, Sam. He was," her voice grows hushed, "eminent."

"You're talking about before," Sam says, skirting the outside of the pentagram he painted on the floor. "When his deal came due."

She shrugs, leaning back in her seat. "Then, now, tomorrow, it doesn't matter. He was _made_ for this. We all are, whether we want to admit it or not. But your brother...he's something special. Why do you think Crowley has always taken such an interest in Dean? Why do you think your little angel is always perched on his shoulder? _They_ can see it, Sam. Open your eyes. He's in his element. He's doing what he was _destined_ to do."

"I'm getting really sick and tired of being lectured about our destiny by supernatural scum."

"We're all supernatural once you get under the skin. Demons, angels, souls. You think your meatsuits make you different? They're just a vessel for you, too. That's the big secret, Sammy — there's no end, no beginning. There's only transformation."

"Maybe," Sam admits, though that discussion would require another heavy round of whiskey. "But the destiny talk is just crap. It's not what you're meant to do, it's what you _decide_ to do. It's the choice that makes the difference."

"And did you ask your brother what he wants?" Bela asks. "What choice did _Dean_ make?"

She's still wearing that knowing smile, the one that makes Sam's fist itch in want to wipe it off her face. She was always good at this, talking in circles until her point seemed to make sense. Maybe she had some of it right — maybe there was some sense to this twisted circle of bullshit that they all went through, each in their own time, but in the end it was the decisions that pointed souls one way or the other. And if Dean was too high on Hell to know which decision to make, then Sam will make it for him and live with the consequences. 

Dean had done the same for him. Sam knows he'd do it again and, honestly, Sam's okay with that. 

"Sam," Bela says, but Sam is done talking to her unless she's got something useful to share. He's still got the gag if she starts up with the singing again. "Sam!"

"Really not in the mood for your shit," Sam grumbles, but pulls up short when he sees her expression. "What?"

"Sam!" This time, it's coming from the war room. Sam wheels around to see Jody panting at the top of the stairs. "We've got to move. Cas says we got a, uh," her mouth twitches, as if she isn't sure what she's about to say will make any sense, "Hellhound."

" _Hounds_ ," Bela snaps from behind him. "Plural!"

Sam ignores her. "Cas said that?"

"Yeah," Jody confirms, eyes flicking between them both. "I'm guessing that's bad."

"Understatement of the bloody year," Bela chimes from the background, the tone of her voice rising with every word. "Untie me!"

"Should we be worried?" Jody asks him. "You look worried."

" _Very_ fucking worried!" Bela snaps unhelpfully.

"This place is a fortress," Sam assures her, aware he's pacing and running his hands through his hair as he works through it, Bobby's _Take a breath and figure out what do we do next_ kicking around the back of his skull. "But Crowley knows where it is, and he's got the kind of juice to bust Dean out if he really wants to. _Fuck_. All right, look. They're coming for Dean, right? So," he turns to Jody, "get back to Dean's room. There's a toolbox under the bed. Brown suede bag full of Goofer dust, lay down a thick line at the door. There's a couple sprigs of what looks like a weed, Devil's shoestring, put it above the door jamb. Lock the door and _do not_ open it, no matter what you hear, okay?"

Jody stares at him with a open mouth for half a beat before snapping out of it. "And what are _you_ going to do?"

Sam glances at Bela and takes a breath. "I'll let you know when I figure it out."

"Or get ripped to sodding _pieces_ ," Bela suggests as Jody takes off towards his room. "Hey, _hey_! Either put me with her or kill me, don't just leave me here hogtied for that pillock!"

Sam wheels on her, pressing the demon knife to her throat in one smooth movement. "Give me one good reason."

Bela smiles, slow and easy, and licks her lips. "Because I know why Crowley needs your brother."

Sam hesitates. This is the Bela he knew, always with an ace up her sleeve to save her ass. "Then you better start talking."

+

The last light flickers and pops, leaving the room black as pitch, and Dean can't see in the dark anymore.

He's never been afraid of the dark, despite knowing what lurks in the shadows. He grew up in it, learned to tie his shoes and load a shotgun in it. He knows what lurks in the darkness, has grown into a man learning how to kill it; learned how to move in it, to dress and pack a bag and drive in it, to strip and rebuild his handgun without the aid of the light; to tell the difference between a smile or a scowl by the tone of a voice, how it was easy to hide his own flaws; the dark was _comfortable_. The dark was home.

There are hellhounds in the bunker, and Dean wonders where Sam is. What he's doing, if he's eaten. If he _slept_. If Sam was chasing Dean all over creation for the past couple of weeks, he's probably been surviving on road food and naps in the car. Not that they hadn't done that a million times, but getting an hour in the backseat couldn't replace a night in a motel bed. When Sam didn't sleep he forgot to eat, and when he forgot to eat he got _weak_ , and when he got weak he made mistakes, and in their line of work — 

Dean takes a breath. His heart is beating too rapidly, pounding in his ears and giving him a headache. _Good_. If Sam makes a mistake then maybe Dean has half a chance of getting the fuck out of here, away from the blood and memories of things he'd rather forget. The hounds are hard to fight on a good day; if Sam's running on empty, he doesn't stand a chance.

Icy talons sink into his chest, cutting deep into the bone, lead weight crushing his lungs. The more he fights, the tighter they clutch, dull pain bleeding deeper and deeper through him. Dean can't _breathe_. 

Which is fucking stupid, he doesn't _need_ to breathe. 

Strong fingers dig into the meat of his shoulder and Dean sags, focuses on the warmth of the palm, the sharp bite of nails through the fabric of his t-shirt. It sparks a distant memory of white-hot light, the shocking burn as fire laid into his skin. It eclipses his vision and he sinks into it, lets the warmth spread down his arm and across his chest. 

The grip of the angel grounds him, eases the pressure, clears the fog clouding his head. Cas doesn't speak, just holds on as Dean inhales and lets it out slow, realigns with gravity and opens his eyes to darkness.

Castiel raises his other hand and a lonely candle blinks to life, casting the long room in low orange light and deep shadows. It's freezing in here, except for the connection at his shoulder, burning bright-hot despite Cas' failing grace. Dean wishes it felt like it had before, to close his eyes to the light and slip into a deep sleep enveloped by wings, to never wake up again.

A distant howl breaks the tranquil silence. Castiel pulls away.

Dean leans towards it mindlessly, wants it _back_. A second howl echoes the first, overlapped by a crescendo. They're close and they're hungry, starved for decades to make them vicious. 

"That's your cue to go," Dean reminds him.

Cas is still behind him, so Dean can't read his expression, just follow his shadow in the dim light. "I'm not leaving you."

"You're an idiot," Dean tells him. They both know Cas can't smite a mosquito right now, much less a pack of hellhounds. Dean isn't sure why he _cares_. "They'll rip you to shreds. Trust me, there ain't a worse way to go."

"I believe you," Cas says. Something silken and sharp brushes across Dean's cheek as Cas moves forward to place himself between Dean and the door. They're more skeletal than the last time Dean saw them, cutting through the wash of candlelight, bone visible where the feathers are burnt or plucked away. "Be that as it may."

Dean bucks against his restraints, muscles locking tight against his bonds. His eyes sting, bright pinpricks of pain making his vision swim, long shadows and dark feathers bleeding together. " _Now_? Really?" A wing hitches back, Cas glancing back over his shoulder, his profile outlined in soft orange light, like he doesn't know what the fuck Dean's talking about. The howls are getting louder and Cas is just standing there like they have time to _argue about this_. "You've made a fucking career out of leaving, and now you _won't_ go?"

The air swirls in a rush, extinguishing the candle. Dean finds himself cocooned by wings, a warm palm resting against his cheek, gentle thumbs swiping away the sting in his eyes. The world grows hush, deceptively soft feathers blocking out the howls growing closer with every passing breath. 

"I'm sorry," Cas says, and Dean can't see him, can't even seen the dwindling light of his grace anymore. The words feel disembodied, spoken by the enveloping darkness. "I never meant to hurt you."

All Cas ever _did_ was hurt him. Dean wants to hurt him back, wants to bite and claw and shred and tear, wants to make this asshole bleed and scream until he understands how much. Dean wants desperately to believe him, to let himself be swallowed up in the the warm embrace of wings.

Dean wants to _forgive_ him.

"Cas, _please_ ," someone sobs into the silence, and it takes Dean a moment to realize it came out of his own mouth.

"I'm sorry," Cas says again, like that word still means a goddamn thing coming from him.

The chair starts to vibrate beneath him, and it takes Dean a moment to realize the entire room is shaking, loose dust falling through the seams. The stone groans, shuddering deep, deep down, through the core of the earth and the thin veil between this world and the one beneath it.

A sharp _ping_ followed by a resounding _crack_ , and suddenly Dean can breathe.

The wings snap back when Dean lunges, throwing his weight sideways. He wants to throw Cas, to slam him against the wall until it _breaks_ , but when Dean reaches out for that demonic assistance he finds himself grasping, _gasping_ like a fish out of water. The seals along the cuffs burn against his skin, the leather of his bonds smoking against his skin. Cas steps back and Dean can feel him there, just out of reach, but can't touch him.

"You're too human," Cas informs him, calmly, like this is good news. "Don't fight it, Dean, just — "

Dean opens his mouth and screams; no words, just noise, just Dean trying to get this weight on his chest pinning him down _off_. It hooks deeper and Dean screams again, needs to get _up_ and get _out_ and he isn't strong enough, can't break the bonds holding him down. The world tilts and pain lances up his right side, cold stone scraping against his skin.

Something heavy slams against the door, dark shadow breaking the light in the gap over the floor, and snarls.

Cas steps away from the broken circle and Dean sees the slice of light slip along the angel blade he unsheathes. The fucking _idiot_ , they're going to tear him apart.

The door rattles and booms, again and again as the hounds slam into it. The wood by the lock begins to splinter. The growls are so loud they sound like they're already in the room. 

When the lock finally gives in and the door bursts open, there's no pause, no intake-of-breath moment before the beasts pile in. Cas spreads his wings and Dean closes his eyes, can't watch as the hounds bring him down. Light glows beyond his eyelids, too bright and white-hot, and the hounds scream. Something heavy and strong brushes against his shoulder, fills Dean's mouth and nose with the scent of brimstone and pulls him away; the chair is ripped away in pieces, the bonds on his hand snapped apart. The hound yelps and limps away.

Dean scrambles to his feet and away from the light, shielding his eyes as he opens them, watches the glow face away. One of the beasts lies at Cas' feet, corpse a smoking cinder. Another beside Dean, angel blade buried deep in its chest.

Before Cas has the chance to snatch his weapon back, the third knocks him bodily to the ground, paws holding down his shoulders and jaws aiming for his throat.

Dean speaks without thinking. " _Heel!_ "

The jaws never close. The beast snarls, long and low, smoky lips curling back over dripping white fangs, but it backs off the angel. Its long body curls around Dean, fur spitting sparks in the darkness, coming to sit heavily at his side. Its head reaches his shoulder, three pairs of glowing red eyes casting the only light in the room.

Cas stays where he is, hands braced against the stone floor, chest heaving. "Dean, please — "

Dean should kill him. Should set the hound on him and let it shred the angel until there’s nothing left except a memory.

"I told you, Cas," Dean says instead, running his fingers through the hound's wispy mane of hair. It growls at the touch, but doesn't bite. "I don't want to be that guy anymore."

He turns on his heel and cuts the air with a short, sharp whistle, hears the hound growl and the heavy pad of its steps as it follows. 

The hallway is a river of black blood. Dean follows it and finds the bodies, two in the long stretch between the war room and the dungeon, and a third in the turn that branches off to the sleeping quarters. They're all sliced belly to throat, black insides still smoking softly in the cool air.

Two hounds are staked outside of his room. One throws itself bodily against the door while the other paws furiously at the stone by the gap against the floor, snarling against the line of Goofer dust Dean knows is on the other side. 

Something loosens a couple of the screws holding his chest so tight, just enough that it tips Dean off balance. 

He whistles sharply and the hounds stop, heads turning in unison to the sound. With an abated snarl, they abandon the door and join the one already at his side. 

They find Bela alone in the library, still trussed up inside a hastily-painted devil's trap on the floor. Dean wonders if they planned the same for her that they’d had for him, despite the human soul still trapped inside. Probably not; Sam likely only kept her alive because Bela always knew more than she let on, had some trinket or secret that gave her the upper hand. Dean wonders if he has the time to carve it out of her.

Sitting quietly on a shelf directly above her head is a small, pointed figurine about the size of a golf ball. Made of four interlocking triangles of honey-coloured wood, it looks like a three-dimensional puzzle piece, twelve points rubbed soft by centuries of handling.

"Thank the thrice-God-damned Devil," Bela says when she sees him. "The hounds were too busy chasing your brother to notice little old me. Hurry up and get me out of here."

Dean takes picks up the star and almost drops it, hissing through his teeth as it bites his skin. Bela eyes the relic and then Dean, eyes narrow. "First things first. How much do you really know about this?"

"Oh, love, I didn't get where I am without knowing exactly what I'm up against." The sharp curve of her smile could cut the ropes holding her down. "You want to know what Crowley wants you for? I want out of here. So are you going to untie me, or what?"

+

"Do you want me to — " Jody begins.

"No," Sam snaps, undeservedly harsh, but he's too pissed off to feel guilty about it. He's sore from head to toe, covered in black innards, smells like Hell-stained _shit_ , and they're trapped inside his room because the hounds _broke his fucking door_. "Hand me that ax, will you?"

Jody eyes the fire ax leaning in the corner, then grabs the toolbox next to the dresser instead. "Uhhh, no."

"Jody — "

"You're very large and very angry so, no. I'm not giving you an ax," she informs him. "I've got a better idea. Scoot over."

Granted, taking out the screws and removing the hinges is both probably faster and safer than hacking the offending door to pieces, but isn't nearly as satisfying. Jody barely has the second hinge loose when Sam jerks enough of the door aside to squeeze outside, and nearly slips and kills himself on the black slick covering the stone floors. The hallway smells like Hell's sewer.

"Cas!" he bellows. "Cas, where the — "

"You don't have to shout, Sam," Cas says behind him, and Sam turns so fast that this time, he does fall down.

" _Fuck_ ," Sam says from the floor, with feeling. "I _hate_ Hellhounds."

"The feeling is mutual," Castiel assures him, helping him to his feet. "Are you hurt?"

"No, just pissed off," Sam mutters, wiping his hands on his shirt — which, already soaked with the black slick, only makes it worse. "Are you okay? Where's Dean? Did they — "

"I'm fine," Cas lies, because Sam can see quite clearly that it's bullshit; Cas' face is pale and gaunt, dark shadows under his eyes and too rough around the edges. The borrowed heather-grey wings, tucked back, are more skeleton than feathers. There's blood on him, too, both from the hounds and his own wounds, deep claw marks over his collarbone. "Dean's gone."

" _Fuck_ ," Sam shouts again, and Jody winces from the doorway at the volume. "We were so close!"

Jody hugs her arms to her chest and rubs her biceps. "So, now what?"

Sam leans his weight against the wall and tips his head back, closing his eyes. Now they're screwed, is what. It was a hail-Mary pass that they even got Dean back here, got as far as they had, and now that he's gone Sam doesn't know what the fuck. He's exhausted in every possible way, Cas is running on fumes, and Gabriel almost killed Dean before and if he tries it again — Sam isn't sure if they could stop him, next time. 

"Sam?" Jody's voice is tentative, gentle, like she's approaching a wounded animal. Sam locks his jaw and feels gravity pull a little harder. "Hey, c'mon. I've seen you guys work your way outta worse than this. Just another day at the office, right?"

Sam opens his eyes and his vision's blurry. He blinks away the tears. "I don't know what to do."

"First, I'd recommend a shower," Jody says, and a laugh catches in Sam's throat. She pulls him off the wall and weaves an arm under him like a crutch. "Then we find Dean, and try again."

 _Find Dean_. Easier said than done. They're lucky they found him before, that he went back for the Impala at all. "We won't find him," Sam says. He lets Jody hold his weight as she leads them back into the dark library, isn't sure if he can stand up without it. "Not now, not that he — "

"The demon had already begun to retreat," Cas says. He looks a little fuzzy around the edges, and Sam isn't sure if it's his vision or if Cas is starting to fade. "He won't be able to go far."

Sam sits down as Jody guides him towards the table, resting his palms against the wood. "We don't even know where to start."

"Actually, we might," Jody says. Sam looks up as she flips the breakers, and the emergency lights flood the room. "Looks like someone borrowed my keys."

+

The sun is peeking over the horizon and Dean rushes towards it, away from the darkness and the pain and the memories. One hand tightens on the wheel, the other on the wooden relic in his fist, dull points burning at his palm. The engine roars as he leans into the accelerator, rear wheels scrambling for purchase on damp asphalt.

Bela hasn't said a word since they got on the road, but keeps shooting furtive glances across the bench seat. Dean keeps his eyes on the road, counting the regular beat of the windscreen wipers cutting across the glass, wiping the blur of rain away.

He doesn't know what town they're in; he picked a direction and went, as fast as the truck would take them, and finds he has no memory of this place. Just another no-name town built along a stretch of no-name highway, dull orange glow of lights from a gas station and a motel and a diner the only hints that there's life in this place at all.

A bead of water runs down the space between where the blades intersect, rivulet like a single tear across the glass. It reminds him of Krissy, the way the tears had cut through the grime on her cheeks as he cut into her, again and again, deaf to her screams.

Dean yanks on the steering wheel hard, spinning the truck into a tight left-hand turn, back end fishtailing up the road before the rear tires find grip and catch up with the front. Bela curses, hands shooting out to hold herself against the passenger side as the truck peels into the parking lot and slides home in front a single-story line of rooms.

The truck bleeps at him as he leaves the keys in the ignition, gravel crunching underfoot as he climbs out and slams the door shut. The headlights illuminate a green door and a dark, curtained window, reflecting the red, glowing VACANCY letters from the street sign behind them.

The door is locked. Dean lets his head _thunk_ against the wood and squeezes the handle until it creaks in his grip, and stumbles when he blinks through, finds himself standing inside a dark motel room.

Good. That's good. Maybe it'll wear off sooner than he thought, maybe it won't take too long until — 

He looks up into a mirror and sees a shadow of a reflection, silhouetted by the street light filtering through the thin curtains over the window. A man looks back at him, skin dark and shiny as if wet, and Dean leans closer. A light overhead flicks on, and Dean sees there isn't any skin at all — it's been flayed away, revealing the blood and bone and meat beneath it, eyes white and wide without their lids. He can hear Alastair's voice in his ear, low and thick seduction. _I carved you into a new animal_.

Dean jerks back, bile filling his throat.

"Oy!" Bela jumps back as he shoves away from the mirror, darting to the side when he whirls on her. "Dean, it's me!"

Her expression crumbles like the plaster as he punches the wall beside her head. The points of the star dig into his palm, burning, and Dean hisses and flings the thing away. It clatters against the table, wood clicking against wood. His back hits something hard and takes his weight as Dean sinks down, winding his hands into his hair and bringing his knees tight against his chest. The blade bites against his hip, teeth digging into the soft skin of his side, and he focuses on the pain until the room stops spinning.

"Dean," Bela says, cautious. She sounds a long way off. "We can't stay here. Crowley won't be long, and your brother — "

Dean lunges, blind, but catches her by the waist and throws her down, slamming her against the floor. He's on her in an instant, thighs locking around her ribs and fingers closing like a vice around her throat. Her hands grip his wrist, eyes wide and human, chest heaving beneath him.

She tries to raise her hips, heels digging into the carpet for purchase, nails scratching at the thin skin of his wrist. "Dean, please."

He can see her image juxtaposed beneath him, the woman beneath the vessel, the image of herself her soul projected until Dean carved it away, piece by bloody piece. He remembers how the cursing and the promises turned to begging, anything and everything if he'd stop.

Dean rolls off her and leans back against the dresser, shivering in the chill. He tries to focus on the thermostat on the wall, willing it _on_ , but his vision's blurry and can't quite reach it.

Bela lies there panting, palms flat on the floor. "I'm trying to _help_ you."

Dean closes his eyes and tips his head back. "You're trying to help yourself."

"Well, sure," she answers, "but for once our interests are aligned. I help you, you don't kill me, and Crowley has a reason to keep me around." He hears her shift, and listens to her footsteps as she moves, tracking her across the room. She doesn't stay close. "Being your punching bag beats a day in the pit."

Dean opens his eyes as light floods the room. Bela is by the thermostat, turning it all the way up. 

"You look like hammered shit," she informs him. "But we don't really have time to clean up. Those hounds won't be far behind."

Dean doesn't care what he looks like, doesn't care about the hounds. He just wants a minute to _think_ , to try and process what the hell is going on in his head, to weed out what's important and what isn't. Wants to get rid of that deep ache in his chest, weighing him down like an anchor. 

Bela's still talking, incessant voice filling the space between his thoughts. "You give him what he wants, then what're you good for? You're just a liability. Even if you can't be killed, you can be sure Crowley's got a way to screw you six ways from Sunday ready to go. He wouldn't have approached you in the first place without some kind of contingency plan. Much as I hate to admit it, the git's too smart for that." 

He knows she's right, but it doesn't really give him an alternative. Gabriel was more powerful than Dean could have ever imagined; he already knows Lucifer is worse, and Michael? 

Bela drops to her knees in front of him, hands clasped in her lap. "Don't you _see_ , Dean?  Cas is as good as dead, and your brother'll be fine without you. Crowley just wants to use you." Dean closes his eyes and two soft hands cup either side of his face. "You don't need him. You don't need _any_ of them. You're so much more without them, and you're only just getting started. You could be so much more."

Dean knows she's right. Sam's always been okay on his own, adapts so quickly to life without Dean it hurts to think about it, even now. And Cas, well — even if the bastard wasn't about to kick the proverbial can, he never stuck around long enough for whatever the fuck they had between them to mean anything. Dean was just a means to an end, and however much it hurt, Dean gets it. How could he expect anything else? 

And even if that was an option, Dean knows can't have that, never could. Hunters can't quit the life, can't have that happy ending. They helped some people, sure, but they hurt more along the way. They were the worst kind of sinners; righteous and selfishly selfless, deluded into believing the ends justified the means.

"You can't help him," Bela whispers, tone urgent. "You can't give him that sort of power. Take it for yourself."

Grey blurs into black and white, and Dean can see her clearly, now. The damned soul beneath sweet words, twisted and wicked, the very thing he was raised to hunt.

"What gave you the impression," Dean says, "that you have a say in whatever the fuck I decide to do?"

The blade goes in easy, like plunging it into warm butter. Her mouth opens but no sound comes out, just a bubble of blood and a flash of light as the demon dies, taking the soul inside the vessel with it. Warm blood gushes out of the wound and over the handle of the blade, making his stingers sticky. 

The body drops to the floor as he pulls the blade out and Dean stares at it; it looks nothing like her, not like he remembers. Bela had the kind of beauty that could almost make him look past the poison, covet the smooth skin and seductive curl of her voice, the curve of her hips and her breasts and her smile. 

No, he had carved that version of her away, strip by strip, until there was nothing left. If he closes his eyes he can remember her screams, the vicious satisfaction of her begging him to stop, riding the euphoric high of her torment. He can remember them all; countless, nameless souls, how good their fear felt, how their pain translated into his ecstasy. 

Dean looks at the body on the floor and drops the blade, sinks to his knees and clings to his head with both hands. Maybe if he claws hard enough, he can dig the memories out.

+

"He's what now?" Jody demands. "I thought he was the King of Hell?"

"Is it true?" Sam demands, wheeling on Castiel. 

Castiel thinks back; it was so long ago, and the memories have grown foggy with his fading grace. 

"Cas!" Sam takes him by the shoulders and Castiel opens his eyes. "Is it even possible?"

"It's possible," Castiel admits. _But whom?_ There were only a handful of angels that ever made the transition. Most of them were already dead. "Ana tore out her grace and was reborn mortal. She was born human."

"Yeah, I remember," Sam says, leaning down until his gaze is even with Castiel's, and Castiel meets his eyes. "But did she have a soul?"

An uncomfortable prickly sensation creeps across Castiel's chest, like a slow soak of ice water. "Yes."

"Shit," Sam snaps. "Well that's just fucking great."

"Excuse me," Jody interrupts. "I may be new to the angel club, but d'you mind explaining what the hell you're talking about?"

"Crowley," Sam grates out. "He's — I don't even know anymore. But if that thing can do what Bela said it can — "

"The star was a gift from God, a token bestowed to the descendants of David, a reward for his faith." Both Jody and Sam turn to look at him, and Castiel sighs. "David was... a good man, but he sacrificed much for his people, for the Lord's will. Ultimately, his soul did not ascend to Heaven. The star was passed from father to son, but was stolen from Solomon. It hasn't been seen since before the Son was born." Castiel rests against the table for support; his wings feel immeasurably heavy, succumbing to the will of gravity. "The relic is useless unless one has the power to wield it. A true servant of Heaven; an angel, a prophet, a vessel. It possesses restorative powers — "

"It can restore grace?" Sam asks. "Are you fucking kidding me? This entire time, you're — it was _right here_ , Cas! We could've used it to fix you!"

"No." Castiel never even considered that. "Not just grace. Souls. I had no idea it was here. If I had, I — we could have used it on Dean."

Sam blinks and takes a sharp breath. "Well, great. That's really useful information to have _now_."

"Sam," Jody says, reproachful. 

"Forget it," Sam snaps. Castiel doesn't take offence; Sam's frustrated and worried, and he's had enough experience with human emotion to empathize. Sam rounds on Jody. "What's taking so long for your guy to track the lojack in your truck?"

Jody sighs and rubs at her temple. "He's doing me a favor," she repeats tiredly. "This isn't exactly protocol. Normally they'd report it to the local authorities and they'd take it from there. If he gets caught he could lose his job."

Sam makes a noise like an infuriated bull, something Castiel has come to associate with frustration. "We don't have _time_ — "

"Well, if you have another idea — "

Castiel leaves them to it. He's too tired to participate, exhausted on an atomic level. He's feeling a disconnect from his vessel and its three-dimensional world that is frankly terrifying; as if he took one wrong step, he could trip out of his place entirely, and has no idea where he would land.

It reminds him of the beautiful room, listening to Dean beg to see his brother, for Castiel to take him to Sam. The moment right before his Fall.

Sam's sitting on a chair, elbows balanced on his knees and hands wound tight into his hair. Jody reaches out and lays a gentle hand on his shoulder, stilling them. "We'll get him back, Sam."

Castiel wonders where Dean is, what he's feeling. If he has enough of himself back to recognize what he's become, if he has enough strength to take it back. He remembers how strong Dean's body felt, how comfortable his grace had wrapped up inside of it, warm and dynamic and _safe_. The demon may have fought but the vessel welcomed him in, let his energy rejoin that which had rebuilt it, seep in and fill up the cracks until it was whole.

He could never take that back, even if Dean regained himself and managed to forgive him. He will surely never forgive himself. He's grateful he will not live long enough to suffer the consequences, either way.

"Maybe there's a spell." Sam's voice is muted, muffled as if Castiel is listening through a door, barely making sense of the words. "Something to track him down. I've got enough of his stuff here, maybe — "

Castiel lets it go and instead spreads out, grace itching under his vessel's skin. He searches for that thread, a connection that defies description, extends through energy and matter, isn't limited by time and space. The bond that drew he and Dean back together time and time again. through every windfall and hardship, from Heaven to Hell, through Purgatory and back to Earth, until there was nowhere left for him to fall.

There's an eternal deep hush, here, in the void between the realm of corporeal and the plane of the celestial. The quiet helps him focus, lets him view the world through a filter, to listen and look for things left unseen. Threads of cause leading to effect, caught in a thin envelope between worlds where time simultaneously speeds up and stands still.

Something gently brushes his senses, faint at first, like a persistent itch he's unable to scratch. It blooms into a deep ache in his chest, pulsating and raw and overwhelming. Castiel knows that pain intimately, could find it in a sea of damned souls in Hell, has spent years trying to figure out how to soothe it. 

Castiel may be fading, but has enough energy left to do this one good thing.

+

The motel room looks like it was hit by a very small, violent tornado. Bela's body is left to rot on the floor, discarded like a piece of rubbish among the broken furniture. A harsh light flickers on and off in the bathroom, struggling to stay lit. Crowley steps over her body and moves into the small toilet, glass cracking under his boots. 

The mirror above the sink is shattered, fissures branching out from the crater in the center, casting a spiderweb of reflections. Dean is sitting on the floor of the shower stall under the spray, steam rising off his skin, water pooling a diluted pink beneath him before swirling away down the drain. He has the star in his hands, wood tacky with blood between the sharp angles. Dean holds it by two points between his forefinger and thumb, spinning it idly.

Crowley leans against the doorjamb. "Love what you've done with the place."

Dean continues to spin the artifact, flicking it with his other hand. The blade is nowhere to be seen; that doesn't assure Crowley, because Dean would keep it close. "She told me what you wanted this for," he says, finally looking up. "Gotta say, it definitely clears a couple things up. Mostly why you're such a douchebag."

Crowley shrugs. "You'd have found out eventually." He watches Dean grip the star in his fist, and the skin of his hand starts to smoke. "Question is, what're you going to do about it?"

"I should stick this blade so far up your ass you choke on it."

It's probably an empty threat; most of Dean's are, used for posturing or making a point or often just to clarify exactly how miffed he is. But then again, he did skewer the bitch.

Crowley abruptly shifts into another lane without bothering to signal. "Whatever you're feeling now, it will pass."

Dean cuts at him with a cold stare. "You should shut the fuck up right about now. You have no idea — "

"Oh, but I _do_ ," Crowley interrupts. "I've been there, Dean. You saw it yourself. Now you understand." Dean continues to glare up at him, but doesn't move. "I gave you gift. Freedom from this," he gestures at the mess on the walls, the floor, "all these insecurities, the regret, the _guilt_. Look what you've become without humanity chaining you down. Imagine what _else_ you could accomplish."

Dean's eyes unfocus, drifting beyond the tangible, looking a little further, before snapping back to Crowley.  "And what about you, huh? What do _you_ want to accomplish?"

Crowley allows himself a smile. "Oh, a little of this, a little of that." Dean's eyes sharpen, so he skips to the point. "Order. I want _order_ , Dean. What good is Hell on earth if there's nothing left to corrupt? What's the point of everlasting paradise if nobody's allowed to have any fun, eh?"

Dean looks back at the star in his hand. It looks so innate, even covered in Bela's blood, sitting in the palm of Dean's hand. Crowley's so close he can _taste_ it, has to forcibly reel in his impatience and let Dean work through it. Maybe that lout of a brother and their pet angel did him a favor; maybe Dean has just enough humanity in him to remind him why he hated it, hated himself for embracing what he was capable of.

"C'mon, Dean, what d'you say?" Crowley shifts a little closer and holds out a hand. "You ready to take a howl at that moon?"

"Tell me something," Dean says, eyes still on the relic. "How long have you known? About your," the edge of his lip curls, "family history."

"Long enough." Crowley isn't sure where this line of questioning is going, but he doesn't like it. "You just going to sit there?"

"So what was it?" Dean's fingers curl tight around the star, hiding it inside his fist, wisps of white smoke leaking out between the gaps. "I know why you sold your soul, but why'd you Fall?"

Crowley narrows his eyes, lets them cloud over. "What does it _matter?_ "

"I don't know. Maybe it doesn't." Dean does look up at him then, eyes far too human. "But I still want you to answer the question."

The hounds standing guard outside begin to howl and snarl. He perceives a faint shudder in the air, a pause in between time and space, the demonic equivalent of hairs rising on the back of his neck. 

No, no, _no_ , not _now_. He's so _close_.

The angel doesn't make a grand entrance, no thunderclaps or flash or light or exploding bulbs, simply appears in the bedroom with a rattle of bony wings.

"Tell him." Castiel spits the words at Crowley's back, like a threat. "Tell him why you Fell."

"Don't take that tone with me," Crowley snaps right back, turning around. "You of _all_ people — all the centuries of sin up my sleeves, and I can't hold a candle to the things you've done."

"Really?" Castiel's eyes shift over his shoulder, and Crowley becomes extremely aware that Dean's stood up, too close behind him. "Worse than original sin?"

"I never played God, did I?" Crowley moves into the room, if only to put distance between his person and the blade Dean's wielding. "It was your brother — "

" _Our_ brother, Crowley," Castiel interrupts. "Or do you prefer your given name, now?" He goes on, voice dangerously low. Thunder cracks overhead; so much for forgoing the theatrics. "Do you even remember it? The name our Father gave you?"

Crowley weighs his options. The safest route is to kill the angel, and it's not like Castiel has a chance of defending himself in his current state — but if Crowley kills him now, there's no telling how Dean would react. And Dean still has the star, and more importantly, has the blade. He's too unstable for Crowley to risk it.

"That name died when I did." Dean's watching him, not the angel, and Crowley needs to keep it that way. "I remember enough. I remember _Michael_. You were there, Cas. You saw what Lucifer and Michael did to Heaven, what they did to the _planet_. And that was when God was still around to put his foot down. Now?" He shakes his head. "Nothing will be able to stop them. They'll annihilate each other and everything else along with it!"

The angel has the gall to sneer at him. "As if you _won't_ — "

"Hold up." Dean steps between them, one hand grasping the blade and the other the star, hidden inside his fist. His eyes don't stray from Crowley. "You still haven't answered my question."

His eyes shift as Castiel starts to recite, " _Now the serpent was more crafty than any of the animals the Lord had made_ — "

"Oh, please, don't start quoting that tosh at me, I was _there_ ," Crowley barks, bringing Dean's attention back. "Your big book of all things holy gets more wrong than it goes right. Most notably that it wasn't Eve that ate the forbidden fruit. Smarter than she looked, that girl. But Adam, well, he was easy." He pauses to smile. "But that's what happens when you get centuries of men telling the story. Blame the woman."

"Original sin," Dean says, finally adding it all together. "I thought Gadreel let the snake into — "

"He _was_ the snake," Castiel interrupts. "Lucifer planted the seed, Gadreel let him in, but it was always down to you," his gaze snaps back to Crowley, bright blue and sharp. "You ruined paradise. God left because of _you_."

+

Just north of Burr Oak, Kansas, where Hwy 128 intersects with a road with no name, a small five-room motel rests adjacent to a diner that serves as a home-away-from-home for truckers running the long route between the coasts. The four-pump gas station across the street is only manned 8am to 3pm Tuesday through Sunday, but diesel's available 24/7 if you use a credit card.

The waitress sits in her car outside the front doors, waiting for her manager to arrive and open up shop, dozing with her sunglasses on to shield her from the rising sun. The truckers will start arriving in an hour or so, mostly for coffee and occasionally getting a meal to go. They tip pretty well so it's worth the early start, and she likes to get here with time to spare and listen to the quiet of the plains through her rolled down window, taking a gentle drag on her cigarette before the heat of the day starts to set in.

Somewhere close by, a dog howls, followed by another and another. Damn strays getting into the dumpster again. She ashes her cigarette and continues to scroll through her phone. 

+

"God left because he was a _coward_ ," Crowley snarls. He starts forward and Castiel raises his broken wings, and starts to glow.

The pillar of light is larger than life, too large to see and everywhere at once. The light shudders like flashlight on drained batteries, flickering in and out, bathing the room in blinks of white-hot light. The red viper rears back, exposing its fangs and spreading its red-smoke wings.

The light shimmers and changes, and Dean shields his eyes, unable to focus on it, catching glimpses of the form it takes; large twisted horns, a striped head upon a curved neck, the sharp edge of a halo. 

"Let he among you without sin cast the first stone," Cas snaps back. The light fades and Dean can see him again, breathing heavily in the center of the room, between Dean and Crowley. "You, Gadreel, Lucifer, _Michael_ ," he makes a sound like an aborted laugh, a huff of a breath that comes up short. "You all think you know the answers. God may have left, but he can still come back. I believe that. I _have_ to."

"You're mad," Crowley rants over Dean's thoughts, bringing him back to the present. He paces between them, as if to keep a physical barrier between him and the angel. "God's never coming back. He knows better. The best we can do is keep this bloody world spinning. And when Michael and Lucifer get out, they'll raze it to the ground!"

Cas meets his gaze evenly. "Won't be the first time."

"Oh, right," Crowley jeers. "Because that went _so well_ the first time. How can you think that Mario and Luigi here will be enough?"

Cas glances at Dean, the smallest hint of a smile. "They always have been."

"I've heard enough of this, have you?" Crowley says to him, but turns back to Castiel before Dean has the chance to answer. "Do us all a favor and go die somewhere quietly, will you?"

"Dean, wait." Cas moves close, close enough to strike, but Dean hesitates, lost in the ethereal blue of his gaze. "Don't. I didn't come here to fight. He's lying to you. The star can do more than restore his grace. You can use it to restore your _soul_." 

"Are you out of your sodding mind?" Crowley demands. "What bloody good is his soul going to do any of us? _Especially_ him?"

Cas doesn't answer him, keeps his eyes on Dean. "Come back, Dean. Sam wants you back. _I_ want you back. What you're feeling, however much it hurts, you're strong enough to handle it. It may not seem like it's worth it right now, but it is. It's worth _everything_." He takes a step closer and Dean backpedals, maintaining the distance. Cas pursues him, reaching out, and Dean shifts forward like a magnet to iron. His hand closes around Dean's shoulder, hotter than the sun. "I know you're scared, but this is important, Dean. More important than Lucifer, more important than Michael. You — the _real_ you — you'd agree with me."

The warmth of his touch spreads down to Dean's chest and blooms, burning the cold away. Cas' eyes flicker like the lights of a haunted house and Dean wants to scream at him, the idiot, how fucking dare he come here, wasting whatever he has left on Dean like Dean's worth it, like he _deserves_ it. 

Like Dean would even want to exist in a world in which he didn't.

" _Enough!_ " Dean doesn't hear the words so much as _feel_ them, like a physical shove between them. Cas crumples as he slams against the back wall, collapsing on the floor in a tangled heap of limbs and broken wings. Dean almost darts forward before he catches himself, tightens his grip on the blade. He can't see Crowley behind him, but feels his words whisper against the back of his neck, the red eyes on him. "You’re really just going to stand here and listen to this? Listen to _him?_ I may have never told you the whole truth but all he's ever done is lie to you. Right from the start, again and again, and he has the gall to call himself your friend? Claim to _love_ you?"

Crowley steps in front of him, blocking Cas from view. "That pain you're feeling? The indecision? That's the human in you, desperately holding on. Terrified of letting go, of being alone. But help me, and I promise you, you'll never have to feel that again."

Dean looks at the angel beyond his shoulder and knows Crowley's telling the truth, is tempted to take it, to forget why any of this mattered, why it hurt so much. How is he supposed to face Cas after this? How the hell is supposed to face _Sam?_

If he gives Crowley what he wants, maybe Crowley will have the power to kill him so he doesn't have to live with it.

When Dean tries to move around him, Crowley steps into his path. "Dean," he says, edge of his voice sharp as the blade in Dean's hand. "Don't do this to yourself."

The mark on his arm warms as Dean raises the blade. "Get out of my way, Crowley or I'll _make_ you."

Crowley raises his hands and backs off, eyes like hellfire. The hounds outside snarl and yip at the window. 

Cas doesn't open his eyes as Dean squats in front of him, head leaning back against the wall. Dean might think he was already dead, if not for the lack of burned wings; one is crushed beneath him, the other bent at an awkward angle between his body and the corner. His chest rises and falls with shallow breaths, and his eyelids flutter when Dean speaks, the only tell he's still in there.

"Y'know, he's right." Dean fists his hand around the star; it's small enough to be totally encased by his fingers, points pressing painfully into his palm. "My soul isn't worth it. Never was. Gotta be honest, I don't know what the hell you ever saw in me," he admits, ignoring the heavy scent of impatience and brimstone behind him. "But I never did thank you, for what you did. For me, for Sam. For all of us. And if anything's worth it, that is."

Dean reaches out to brush the messy black fringe back, and blue eyes open just in time to see him smile. "Do me a favor and keep an eye on Sammy, would you?"

Cas grabs his wrist but doesn't have the strength to stop him. There's an infernal roar and wash of heat from behind, but Dean ignores it, thrusting his palm into the angel's chest. The little star grows red hot against his palm, burning through the flesh and up his arm like a red-hot spike.

Black wings unfold with noise like a hurricane, and Dean closes his eyes and lets the white light wash over him, praying it'll burn the world away.

+

Something deep inside her car begins to rattle.

It begins with a tremor so slight she thinks she left her engine on, and dammit, she just dropped four hundred bucks on a new alternator, what the hell is it going to be this time?

The shaking increases, rattling the windows of the buildings. She sits up a little straighter, and starts to roll up her window before it shatters, safety glass spraying inward, getting between her legs and down her shirt, lodging in her bra. She drops her cigarette in surprise, then curses when it starts to burn in her lap. 

She forgets about it when a beam of light erupts out of the roof of the motel next door, pure white and brighter than the rising sun. The sound follows it quickly, a high-pitched whine that builds and builds, until she can't even hear herself screaming. She clamps her hands over her ears and ducks her head, hiding from the light, mumbled prayers spilling over her lips. 

+

The black of space is colder than Hell and stretches on forever in every direction. It looks emptier than the night sky from here, sparse points of light hardly visible in the void. He tries to turn his head, but his body feels impossibly heavy, encased in transparent concrete. He wants out, wants _away_ , and when a spot of distant light winks in his peripheral vision, Dean reaches for it. Something tangible pulls tight and tears.

Massive, incorporeal clouds of a nebula obscure his vision. A dark sphere churns below it, made visible only by the light encircling it, swirling like a cosmic cyclone. There is no sound, just the overpowering pressure as it tugs everything towards it, stars and planets and light itself. 

The nebula _moves_ , pale gas and points of light shimmering along four legs and a long, curved neck. The spectral horse turns, its wedge-shaped head tossing among the stars.

There's a tug at his elbow, and Dean stumbles as gravity reasserts itself and his feet hit hard earth. The next sense that returns is sound; the hiss of a persistent wind and the gentle lapping of waves against a beach. He opens his eyes, and finds himself standing on wet sand hard-packed by a receding tide. The ocean is bright red, licking at the shore like waves of blood underneath a violet sky. A deep orange orb of light glitters over the horizon, rising much too quickly. The air smells vaguely like sulfur, but sweeter, as if someone sprayed an air freshener in Hell.

Something enormous and white breaches in the distance, torpedo-shaped body slamming down into the calm water with a massive crash of red water and white foam. 

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

Death looks the same as the last time Dean saw him, tall and skeletal and effortlessly confident. Dean wonders if it's a vessel or just a form Death chooses to put him at ease. Something familiar, something human. "Where am I?"

"The answer to that really depends on who you ask," Death says, squinting into the rising light. "To that creature, this is home. To you and yours, some nameless exoplanet with a meaningless numerical designation, slotted on a list of thousands more within your local supercluster. A vague calculation of size, orbit, velocity, and proximity to its host star." He peers into the strange sun, still rising rapidly in the distance. It seems smaller, now, but Dean isn't really paying attention. "That data is a few million years overdue, of course. Fickle thing, physics."

When Dean just stares at him, Death glances his direction and raises and eyebrow. "You look well, Dean."

Dean isn't well. Dean's about to lose his fucking shit. "How the hell did I get here?"

"Here?" Death points at the beach they're standing on. "I brought you here, because you were out there," he points at the minute ball of light still rising over the horizon. "Not the best place to catch up. Of all the infinite corners of the cosmos you could've chosen, naturally you gravitate towards the nearest black hole wreaking havoc. You really do have a knack of being in the wrong places at the worst of times."

"Black hole?" Dean repeats, because seriously, _what the ever-loving fuck_. "That was a  — "

" — gravity well from a nearby star gone supernova that collapsed upon its own weight, and is currently devouring this unfortunate star system?" Death raises an eyebrow. "It makes one wonder if you're simply attracted to catastrophe, or if it's attracted to you."

There's a flash and the ocean is bathed in bright light, turning the water neon. The earth shifts beneath his feet, shuddering long and deep, and the ocean continues to recede. Dean shields his eyes against the light. "I didn't," Dean starts, but that's as far as he's planned. Default set to denial, improvise the excuse. "I just, I wanted to get _out_."

Death gives him a look that makes him feel stripped down, naked even in his own skin. "The 'took a wrong turn' excuse is a bit of a stretch, even for you."

"Oh, fuck off," Dean mutters, because apparently a pint of humanity right off the keg isn't enough to reinstall the life-preserving filter between his brain and his mouth. "I don't know what game you're playing, but — "

"Once again, you make the mistake of thinking everything is about _you_ ," Death interrupts. He doesn't raise his voice, but Dean feels the chill crawl down his spine and bites his tongue. " _Your_ problems, _your_ family, _your_ planet," Death goes on, and gestures at the ocean before them, the sky above it. The light is smaller, now, like a flashlight being pulled further and further away. "This entire galaxy and everything in it is slowly being ripped to shreds and will summarily be crushed into a single atomic point, and still you're still wondering what _angle_ I'm playing. Life isn't a game, Dean. It's a marathon of suffering and survival and, frankly, I sometimes wonder why you all fight so hard."

Dean squints against the light. The water is receding rapidly, now; some kind of — alien fish? — flopping about in the barren beach, unable to keep up with the ocean as it pulls away. Dean thinks about killing them, just to put them out of their misery. 

"Don't trouble yourself," Death says, as if reading his mind. "It won't matter in a few minutes."

"I'm not — what the fuck," Dean says. It's darker, now; the sun, or star or whatever, seems elongated, like a torpedo, and the light it's giving off is fading as rapidly as the water. "And what're you, you're just gonna stand there?"

"You need to stop thinking of me as an individual," Death says. "I'm simply a fact, Dean. Everything dies, but nothing is destroyed. Not really. Your consciousness, your sense of self, perhaps. That fish, this beach, those stars." He shrugs. "Some of your religions have the right idea; your concept of what I am, of death, is merely a transformation from one thing into the next. God didn't create you any more than I can destroy you. He simply granted you the collective consciousness and ingenuity to figure yourselves out. Energy made sentient. I told him it was a stupid idea, but did he listen?"

His light tone is belied by an explosion of light overhead. The sonic boom follows it quickly, like thunder on the heels of lightning, as a massive chunk of fire cuts through the sky overhead and curves out of sight. 

"So what happens now?" Dean turns away from the fading ocean to face him. It. _Whatever_. "You gonna let me get sucked in with the rest of it, find out what's on the other side?"

"If you like," Death says, shielding his eyes from the falling meteors. "Or I could leave you where I found you, aimlessly wandering the universe to destroy what you will, nothing but a force of nature. Even if you somehow found your way back, by the time you did, there'd be no Earth to go back to, engulfed by the red giant your star is destined to become."

Dean tries to contemplate that and quickly gives up. That might satisfy the mark, but the idea of never cruising a highway with the radio cranked up, never hearing the rustle of wings and thinking _comfort_ , of never seeing his brother again. "And what's door number three? You just kill me?"

"Really, Dean." Death turns to face him, skeletal features made sharp by deep shadows in the failing light. "What fun would that be?"

"Can you?" he asks. "Kill me?"

"I suppose there's only one way to find out," Death says. "Would you like me to try?"

Dean looks up at the dying star, the unseen destruction beyond it. He thinks about Cas, about Sam, about everything he's ever known out there somewhere beyond his reach. Safe from whatever the mark might make him do to them. 

He thinks about what their lives would have been without one another, what would have happened to the world if he had just taken the easy way out. 

When he looks back down at Death, the image of him is smiling. "Well?"

Dean attempts to take a breath, but there's no more air, here. He closes his eyes to the receding seas and the darkening skies. "And if I want to get back?"

A cold hand lands on his shoulder, gripping down to whatever's left of his soul. "Second star to the right, Dean, and straight on 'til morning."

+


	12. Chapter 12

**three weeks**

* * *

  


xi.

  


When Dean opens his eyes he finds himself standing alone in the observatory. The bunker is dark, all muted colors and deep shadows cast by the standby lights. A small _plip_ echoes through the halls, the distant, incessant drip of a leaky faucet. It feels cold in the dark halls, empty of souls, still and hush so that he can hear his own heartbeat. Dean wonders how long he was gone.

He doesn't make a big show of it. Grabs a beer from the kitchen and chugs it down; on a second thought, digs one of the older bottles of whiskey out of the old storage, something Scottish and twice his age. The clink of the glass hitting the table is jarring, echoing down through the library and down the halls. He pours himself a drink, rests his ass on the table, and starts to pray.

"You got about five minutes before I change my mind," is how he starts, and that much is true; one leg is bouncing incessantly up and down, betraying whatever cool demeanor he's projecting into the ether. "I don't even know if you can hear me like this. Which, y'know, just makes me the idiot talking to himself."

The sound of his own voice is disconcerting; it sounds strange, somehow, catching on the vowels, sentences splintering off before he finishes them. He knocks back the scotch and it goes down smooth and hot, like a shot of grace. "Thing is, I don't know if I want you to hear me. You tell me this," he gestures at himself despite being alone, "that this is some kind of poison, and I gotta tell you, man, you're wrong. This isn't a disease, it's the _cure_. That guy you want back so bad? _He's_ broken.

"And it's gonna be worse now, you know that, right? Sam does. I mean, he'll do it anyway, but he doesn't know any better. You, though — " Dean breaks off, because now he's just getting off topic. The mark on his arm itches and he resists the urge to scratch at it. "How the fuck am I supposed to just shrug this shit off, go back to whatever passed for normal? How am I supposed to live with _this?_ "

The anger is familiar, comfortable, and Dean stews in it for a moment, lets it wash over his chest and down his arms, lets it feed the mark Cain passed on to him, watches it light up in the darkness. "What the hell does it matter, anyway? I gotta die sometime, and then it's right back in the saddle again. Ain't gonna mean shit for any good I do in the meantime, and let's be real, I never did much to begin with."

His arm starts to ache and Dean clutches at it with his free hand, resting his forehead against his fist and grinding his teeth, rocking gently back and forth in time with the pulsing pain. What the hell was he thinking? Of course Cas can't hear him, not like this. Or maybe he can, but when Dean jump-started his grace it washed away whatever connection the two of them had, knocked the sense into the angel, allowed him to let go and move on, slide back into that cool composure of a good soldier Dean had first met years ago.

Maybe Cas took his shiny new wings and split, left them to fend for themselves. It's the smart play. Maybe there wasn't anything special there to begin with and Dean's just played himself into it, let himself believe something changed along the way to make it worth coming back.

He thinks about calling Sam, but he doesn't know if he can wait that long. Even if he could, he knows how bad it's gonna be after. He remembers what it was like, trying to live human with this curse on his arm. Remembers the bloodlust, the overwhelming rage that came with it, the eclipsing need to _kill_ _kill kill_.

Demon or not, Dean might kill him by accident. He can barely keep the kid alive when he's _trying_.

"I know it's a big ask." Even whispered, the words come out too loud, bouncing back at him off the stone walls. "I know saying sorry ain't gonna cut it. And I'm not even sure if I am, but," Dean pushes off the table and glares up at the ceiling. "C'mon, man, where the fuck are you? Why are you _never_ here when I really need you?" The ceiling stares back, offering no answers. "I'm trying to hold it together, but I'm tired, Cas. I'm tired of trying so damn _hard_."

The lights overhead flicker and Dean stills, hairs along his arms and neck standing on end. A bulb pops overhead and Dean allows himself a smile, tips the bottle back, sucking down a shot in a shower of sparks.

Something _clicks_ in the distance and whatever lights are left whole flick on, flooding the bunker with light. Cas is standing in the middle of the war room, straight ahead and down the stairs. There's no wings, this time. He looks smaller without the trench coat, almost alien in borrowed clothes that don't quite fit. The eyes are the same, though, the color of the sea during a storm. He stares at Dean like he can't quite believe it, like Dean's a mirage that'll vanish if he blinks.

Dean sets the bottle down on the table with one hand, and picks up the First Blade with the other.

"There's my angel."

+

Dean looks just like he did last time Castiel was in a room with him, dressed in black jeans and a blood-stained t-shirt, a slight crease between his eyebrows over a strained smile. He looks more human than something else, features backlit by muted light of a soul trying to heal.

"You came back," Castiel says, a desperate plea to continue to hold this illusion in place.

"Yeah, I, uh," Dean cocks his head, eyes dashing off the side briefly before snapping back to Castiel. "Yeah."

They stare at one another, seconds ticking past, and whatever impulse brought Dean here visibly begins to crack, like a flimsy, tangible thing. Castiel wants to apologize, wants to beg for forgiveness, wants Dean to understand he did what he did because Castiel can't imagine a universe in which he does not exist.

But how can he expect forgiveness for reasons so purely selfish? Dean told Castiel he would never forgive him, and Castiel believed him. Dean _shouldn't_.

"I almost didn't," Dean says, and offers a strained smile.

It reminds Castiel of the demon within and he flinches. He doesn't want to know the answer, but forces himself to ask: "Are you here to kill me?"

"Ain't gonna lie, it's crossed my mind."

"And?" Because Castiel won't stop him, but Dean already knows that.

"Y'know, I had this big speech planned," Dean says. He takes a breath, almost like he's gasping. "It sounds so fucking stupid, now."

"Dean — "

"Just listen, alright?" Dean holds his right forearm in his left hand, lets his thumb brush over Cain's mark. "It'd be easier to kill you. Because honestly? I'd be better off. Funny thing about being a demon, you get a more objective view of your life." He looks back at Castiel, and all Castiel sees in his eyes are pain. "Hell, the world would be better off without _both_ of us. We try so damn hard to make it better, and all we do is end up makin' it worse."

"That's not — "

"I'm talking and you're listening." Dean interrupts, and for a moment Castiel can see him flicker, swallows down dread as one eye blacks out. "Death was right. Every time we steer the bus away from the cliff, there's another one just around the next corner. If this world _wants_ to die, why don't we just let go of the wheel? Lay down on the accelerator and just," Dean makes a little whistling sound, and mimes and explosion with his hands, "let it happen."

The black eye fades, and Castiel's world is filled with green. "But I decided fuck that. I've given my entire life to keep this world turning, and it just wants to quit?" Dean smiles again, and it's a little more genuine this time. "Not on my watch."

"And me?" Castiel is scared to hear the answer, but just as scared as never knowing. "You could have fixed yourself, if you wanted. Restored your soul, removed the mark. A clean slate. Why did you — "

"You know _why_ ," Dean snaps like a whip, and Castiel takes a step back. "I wouldn't have been able to live with myself. Not if you — " He cast his eyes down, off to the side. "Doesn't really matter now, does it?"

"You came back," Castiel says again, and maybe it's out of fear that none of this is real. Castiel's still occupying a space where this feels like a dream, like he's shifted into some alternate universe by accident.

Dean looks him over and Castiel is afraid to move, terrified of disturbing the delicate circumstances that led Dean to walk back into this room and pray for him. He keeps still as Dean approaches, measured steps shrinking the space between them, and stops right in front of Castiel, but still has his eyes cast aside. "There an echo in here? Yeah, Cas. I came back."

Castiel ignores the blade held loosely at Dean's side, keeps his gaze on Dean's eyes. They're still human. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "Will you stay?"

Dean smiles again, and it's a little more like the smiles he used to give Castiel before. "I have one condition."

Castiel answers instantly: "Anything."

The edge of Dean's lips twist. "Don't make promises you can't keep." He glares at the wall, as if it's threatening to interrupt him. The urge to reach for him is physically painful for Castiel to resist. "Three weeks," he says. "I need — promise me you'll stick around, just — three weeks, Cas. That's it."

"Three weeks," Castiel repeats. "What do you — "

"I mean, I need you to _stay_ ," Dean snaps, and Castiel flinches at the undercurrent of wrath on the last word. Dean takes a breath and finally looks at Castiel. His eyes are clear and wet, lids stained pink, pupils tiny pinpricks of black in a sea of green. "Three weeks."

"Three weeks,"  Castiel repeats. He meant it when he said _anything_. "What happens after that?"

"Fucked if I know," Dean says, aborting a laugh. "But I need you to promise me, and I need you to keep it, because I can't — " he bites off the end of the sentence and takes a breath. "I just need to be sure you're not gonna," he gesticulates with his left hand, "vanish for some reason I don't understand. It's just, it's probably gonna suck for a while, and I'd appreciate you sticking around."

"I have no intention of going anywhere."

"You never do," Dean says, and he seems less angry and more resigned, and something hooks into Castiel's chest and yanks down, hard. "Look, it's fine. I get it. And now you've got your wings back, so you're good. But I — just three weeks. I don't care if Michael busts out and the world is literally _on fire_. It's," he huffs a laugh, left hand rubbing the back of his neck, "It's stupid and it's selfish and, I might later but right now, I don't care, okay? I need you here, Cas. I don't give a fuck what I say after, I don't care what happens. That's — that's what I need from you."

"Okay," Castiel says immediately.

"Okay?"

"Yes." Restored grace or not, Castiel feels distinctly light-headed. "Three weeks. I promise. But — "

"Good, that's — that's all I need, alright? After that I'll, I'll be fine." Dean mirrors him, sucking in a breath, but he lets it out in a rush. "Where's Sam?"

The abrupt change of topic is physically unbalancing, and Castiel reaches out to grasp the back of a chair. "Out looking for you."

"Really?" Dean seems genuinely surprised, but shrugs it off. "Better late than never, I guess." He digs around in his jeans' pocket and makes an aborted noise of frustration. "Got a phone on you?"

Castiel offers Dean the cellphone he's been using, and his breath catches as Dean's fingers brush his palm. Dean doesn't seem to notice and quickly dials. The room is so quiet that Castiel doesn't need to tune into the call's frequency to know Sam picks up on the second ring, that his voice shifts from blanket concern to breaking when Dean says, "Hey, Sammy."

There's some muted conversation that Castiel forcibly does not listen to — his head is swimming, still unwilling to accept this reality — but whatever Sam says causes Dean to smile. It's the first genuine human reaction Castiel has seen on Dean's face since this whole ordeal began.

"Whoa, man, slow down. Relax. Cas is fine. Yeah, I came back," Dean says. "Yeah, I'm with him. No, I haven't — will you shut up for a second?" Dean gives Castiel an exaggerated roll of his eyes to indicate his exasperation and — Castiel suspects — genuine affection, something he must not have experienced in weeks. "How far out are you?"

"I could — " Castiel offers, but Dean holds a finger to his lips and shakes his head.

"Half an hour? Yeah, I'll be here. And Sam," Dean bites his lip and turns away, but Castiel hears him anyway. "I'm sorry."

There's quiet for a couple of minutes, Dean's head tilted to the side, idly pacing in the same space as Sam responds to that, mutely shaking his head. "Okay," Dean says. "I'll see you in thirty."

Dean ends the call and stares at the phone for a moment. When he looks up at Castiel, he seems to make a decision, and turns the First Blade around in his hand, offering it to Castiel, handle-first.

+

"Ow," Dean says. "Y'know, I'm gonna want use of those when we're done here." Sam doesn't loosen the strap, but goes easier on the second one, eyeing Dean curiously. "What?"

"Nothin'," Sam huffs, locking the buckle and standing up. "Just, you don't seem all that," he waves his hand, "demonic."

"Sort of the point, isn't it?"

"Yeah, but," Sam says, running a hand through his hair. "It should've started to wear off." He looks at Cas. "Right?"

Castiel looks at Dean and shrugs. "I believe the appropriate phrase is to not look a gifted horse in the mouth."

"Unless he was dosing," Sam says, looking back at Dean.

" _Dosing?_ " Dean lets out a short laugh. "I was only gone a couple of hours."

Cas and Sam look at each other again, but it's Sam who answers. "Dean, you've been missing for almost a month."

The information is a little disconcerting; Dean hasn't exactly been counting, though, and not having to sleep just made one day blur into the next, one long endless cycle of existence. "Huh," he says.

Sam looks more worried than usual, and that's saying something. "Where _were_ you?"

"Not sure." Dean thinks about the eternal silence of space, the nebulous pale horse, how something like that can even be put into words. Cas is circling around to his other side, watching him curiously, blue eyes seeing a little too much. "S'kinda hard to explain."

"Try me," Sam says.

"Well, a long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away — "

Sam rolls his eyes. "Forget it. Jody, you good?"

"Yeah!" she shouts from the back. When she comes into view, there's a bandaid on her arm. She looks at Dean, one hand on her hip, and bites her lip. "You ready for this?"

Dean eyes the syringe in Jody's hand. "Probably not." Warm fingers slide around the back of his neck, curling against his jaw. Dean leans into it, closes his eyes, and nods. "Just get it over with."

The other side of his neck pinches as the needle breaks skin, gentler than he was expecting. He can feel the pressure of the injection as the plunger is depressed, feel the warmth of humanity bleed into him. Something deep inside shudders and recoils, sharp claws digging in tight.

Jody pulls away and puts the syringe down on the table. When she turns back, Dean can't look her in the eye.

"When you brother died, how did it make you feel?"

+

When Dean opens his eyes, the world is in black and white.

The colors come back slowly, like watching a flashback scene in a movie that slowly bleeds into the present. Everything hurts. His head is pounding, violent pins and needles running down his arms and legs, the very blood in his veins boiling; his skin feels like it's on fire. There's a vice wrapped around his chest, squeezing too hard for him to get enough air. His ears are ringing so loud his head feels like it's going to explode. He clutches at his head, squeezes his eyes shut, and tries to will the room to stop spinning.

A hand grasps his shoulder and Dean lashes out, slaps it away and stumbles up and back until his body connects with a wall. His legs are jelly, can't hold him up, and gravity drags him back down to the floor.

"Dean!" It's Sam's voice, but Dean can't see him, can't look, doesn't want to open his eyes again. "Dean, it's okay. Hey," Dean flinches as a hand finds his shoulder again, gripping hard, "it's me. You're all right."

No, he isn't. He's so far from all right he's off the goddamn map.

Hands are dragging Dean to his feet and as soon as he's up Dean jerks away, shoving the bodies away. He hears Jody call Sam's name and then Cas, softer, nonsensical words creating a buffer between him and the rest of the world.

The room is stone cold and Dean shivers, teeth chattering, bare arm chafing uncomfortably against the stone wall.

 _Dean_.

He hears the words, but in his head and curls towards it, holds on to it like a lifeline. A warm hand gently touches his shoulder and there's a sound of wings, and Dean lets them curl around him like a fortress, block out the cold and the noise until he's alone in the dark.

+

Dean's standing naked in a dark room that's too cold. Anonymous hands roam his skin, everywhere, greedy, clutching and grabbing. Their touch is freezing, so cold it burns, like the pulsing mark on his arm. Dean tries to pull away but the hands pull him back, swarming over him, unforgiving and suffocating.

He jerks awake with a start, tangled in his sheets. They cling to his sweaty skin, constricting like the hands in his dream and Dean shakes them off, nearly trips as he kicks them away and scrambles to his feet. He flips the bedside lamp on and scrubs at his face, pinching the bridge of his nose until the phantom touches melt away.

Dean doesn't remember how he got in his room, or what happened to his clothes. The blood and dirt are gone, too, whatever wounds he sustained between Gabriel and motel now healed. His heart is still beating rapidly, breaths coming short and shallow.

It's dead quiet in here and the bunker beyond. The bedside clock tells him it's the middle of the night, too late to still be up and too early to be awake, even by hunter standards. His MP3 player is dead and he can't find the charger, and he hasn't quite worked up the will to go searching the place for it. He probably left it in the car. He wonders if the Impala survived the fight with Gabriel, and has the fleeting impulse to find some wheels and _go_ , to get back whatever pieces remain and rebuild her from molten scrap if he has to.

His fingers are on the doorknob and he pauses, realizes he's still butt fucking naked, and takes a breath. The sound is too loud and not loud _enough_ ; not enough to drown out the memories, the pleads of the man he fed to a pack of vamps without a second thought, the screams of the people in the club when he set it ablaze. Walt's garbled begging when Dean laid into him with the blade and took him apart, piece by bloody piece.

He walks backward to the dresser and stands in front of the full-length mirror beside it. It takes a while to convince himself to look.

There's a new scar right over his breastbone from Metatron's blade, a diamond of shiny Mother-of-Pearl of new skin, but aside from that his body doesn't look any different. Cain's mark is still there, red and raised, but it's just a visual reminder. There's no ache, no burning need, just a combination of loose limbs and an empty stomach.

There may not be any marks, but Dean can feel strange hands on him, roaming over his skin, the warmth of blood of dozens of people, people he didn't know and didn't care to, people he killed because it was convenient or served his purpose or just for _fun_. The people he killed to scratch that itch, whether it was the mark or vengeance or the deep-seeded bloodthirsty nature he's been denying for years.

Dean takes the robe off the edge of the dresser and wraps himself in it before stepping out into the dim hall and takes the shortest route through the bunker to the showers. He finds his way in the dark and turns the heat all the way up. He stands under the scalding water until his skin starts to prune, raking at his skin with his fingernails.

The darkness and the white noise of the water helps block it all out, but no matter how hard he scrubs, he doesn't feel clean.

+

_week one_

+

Dean doesn't come out of his room for three days.

Sam wanted to break down the door on day one, but Cas held him back, and then slipped into some pocket dimension beyond human perception. Sam paced in front of the door for four minutes and thirty-six seconds. The moment he got to five he planned to shoot out the deadbolt and kick the door in.

Cas came back in a flurry of invisible wings, laid a hand on his shoulder, and told him Dean was fine. _Resting_ , whatever the fuck that meant. "I'll watch over him," Castiel said, like that was going to satisfy Sam. "You haven't had a full night's sleep in weeks. You should rest yourself."

"I'm _fine_ ," Sam snapped, but Cas stood between him and the door and gave him the sort of look that inferred that it wasn't up for debate, so Sam cursed, stomped out into the library with the intent to stay awake just to spite him, and promptly fell asleep.

He wakes up with a start and becomes abruptly aware of a nasty crick in his neck from sleeping in a chair, half bent over a table. It takes a few minutes to gingerly unfold himself from his seat. Jody's got a broom in one hand and a dustpan in the other, sweeping up some glass on the floor.

"Mornin'," she chimes while he blinks down at her. "I was gonna start with the hallway, but your angel took care of the worst of it."

 _He's not mine_. Sam doesn't say it, because it really doesn't matter. He sends out a silent thank-you to Castiel, anyway, because he wasn't looking forward to scrubbing hellhound off the floor. "You want some help with that?"

"Nah, I got it," she says, sweeping the last of the glass into the pan. "But you can help me in the garage, if you want. After you eat," she adds hastily, giving him a once-over. "I left some scramble in the pan."

At the mention of food his stomach grumbles in agreement, so Sam helps himself to half the leftovers and wolfs it down without really tasting it. He shoves the rest into a bowl and pops it into the microwave to heat it up. He grabs the food and a bottle of water out of the fridge, and heads towards Dean's room.

The hallway is empty. Sam pads up the door and shuffles the bottle to the crook of his elbow, preparing to knock, but pauses when he hears voices on the other side of the door. Dean's talking to somebody — maybe on the phone? — but then Sam hears Cas answer, voice a deep but indecipherable whisper on the other side.

Sam leaves the food and the water outside the door, and goes to help Jody clean up.

+

Sam's idly munching on a bag of chips and browsing the obituaries of a nearby town when he hears the small shuffle of someone entering the kitchen. He almost doesn't look up; Cas never makes any noise when he moves, but Jody makes enough trips to the kitchen to refill her coffee that he doesn't think anything of it until he hears the clip-and-clang of dishes being put in the sink.

Dean's grabbing a beer out of the fridge  when Sam looks up, drops the tablet, and scrambles out of his seat. "Hey," he says.

His brother winces, and Sam realizes it was more of a yelp than the quiet greeting he was aiming for. Dean actually looks okay, all things considered; a little tired, rough around the edges, but there's no circles under his eyes and his skin has a healthy glow. He’s dressed in a pair of old grey sweatpants and plain black v-neck that looks relatively new. He certainly doesn't look like he just spent the last few weeks running on a diet of blood and chaos.

Dean closes the bin with a nudge of his shoulder, and doesn't meet Sam's eyes as he twists off the cap. "Hey."

"You're..." Sam waves his hand to indicate Dean's vertical state. "I mean, how're you feeling?"

Dean's eyes shift somewhere over Sam's shoulders, then down at his beer. "Thirsty."

"Yeah, okay, that, uh. Makes sense, I guess." Sam wants to hit himself in the face. "Are you — um, hungry?"

Dean gives him a funny look, then glances at the sink. "Not really. Tired, mostly. I'm just gonna — " He jerks his head back down the hall.

"But you just got here, what're you — " Sam moves forward, one hand outstretched, but pulls up short when Dean finally meets his eyes. The look stops him cold.

"I told you, I'm not fucking hungry," he snaps, and looks away. He scrubs a hand over his face. "I'm — I just need a couple days, okay?"

Sam crosses his arms over his chest, but doesn't move any closer. "Sorry." Sam exhales, hard. "I'm not trying to be a pain in the ass, all right?"

"Yeah, well, bang-up job so far," Dean snipes.

"Dean — "

Dean cuts him off with a look. "I'm not gonna tell you I'm fine, 'cause I'm not, but I'm..." he hesitates, blinking up at a ceiling before looking back at Sam. "I'm not as bad as I thought."

"Okay," Sam says. "I mean, d'you want to," he cuts himself off and sighs, because of course Dean doesn't want to talk about it. But Sam wants to _help_ , he just has no idea how. "That aside, how're you doing? With the — everything else, I mean?"

Dean's hand jumps to his right forearm, gripping right over where the mark hides beneath the fabric of his shirt. "Same as before," he says, thumb rubbing over the spot. "Isn't any worse, at least."

That isn't exactly good news, but one thing at a time.

"Anyway, I'm still pretty beat, so," Dean says.

"Wait," Sam says, standing up too quickly. "I've been meaning to show you something."

Dean eyes him like he's a trap, but follows when Sam leads him out of the room towards the garage. He keeps a few feet of distance, like he's scared to get too close, but Sam doesn't push it.

Sam flicks on the lights in the garage and stands aside, allowing Dean the space to move through. The Impala is as dirty and dusty as when he found it, complete with broken windshield and bullet holes.

"When were we looking for you, I thought you might go back for it again," Sam admits. "They towed it to some scrap lot, the guy couldn't believe I wanted it back when he saw the odometer, said he'd never seen anything over six-hundred thousand miles before." Sam allows himself a grin at the memory; he'd told Dean to roll it back every time they replaced the engine, but Dean wanted to see if they could max it out. "Didn't even need a tow. Drove it back as-is, I figured you'd want to fix it up yourself."

Dean doesn't say anything, but gravitates towards the car without hesitation just like Sam hoped he would. He runs a hand along the fender and the windowsill, fingers trailing the two holes in the door.

"Bela almost took my head off," Sam says. He knows he doesn't need to apologize for it, but the sentiment is there, anyway. "Guess I’ve got Gabriel to thank for that, too."

Dean looks up sharply at the name, fingers still lingering on the door handle. "What?"

"Nothing," Sam says quickly. "Story for another time. When you're," he shrugs, "up for it, or whatever."

For a second it looks like Dean's going to ask anyway, but he closes his mouth and nods. "Right." He leans both hands against the open window and peers inside, then glances back. "Thanks, man. Really."

"Least I could do." Sam picks up a bucket he left off to the side, grabbing one of the dry sponges inside with his other hand. He tosses it to Dean; his brother twists around to catch it, reflexes still intact. "Wanna help me clean 'er up?"

+

The next morning, Dean wanders into the kitchen dressed in the same clothes but visibly in a better mood. He goes straight for the coffee machine, snagging a mug from the cabinet as he moves into the kitchen. "Still up at the ass crack of dawn, huh? Would it kill you to sleep in?"

"It gets too hot to run in the afternoon," Sam tells him, startled a little by the normalcy. "Did you sleep?"

"Weirdo," Dean says over his coffee, sliding into the seat across from him with a smirk. Sam's gonna get whiplash if Dean keeps this up, but doesn't miss that Dean didn't answer his question. "What're you on?"

Sam shows him the local reports from Hays, going back six weeks. Three deaths, all connected with the automobile accident that left a young woman and her infant dead. There's only two more people that were involved in the pile-up, and likely next on the list. Dean comes to the same conclusion Sam had: vengeful spirit. "Where'd you pick this up?"

"Chad left a message," Sam tells him; it's close enough to the truth. Chad had called and asked Sam to take it, but Sam lied and said they were working a case on the east coast. "He's busy dealing with a ghoul down in Enid, asked me to take a look before he wasted time driving all the way up here."

"Just a salt 'n burn," Dean says, tone just a tad too reasonable. "We could be there and back before dinner."

Sam pulls the laptop back. "Chad said he'll take care of it."

"I thought he was busy dealing with a ghoul?"

"And I thought you needed a couple of days?" Sam slams down the lid of the laptop with a snap. "Yesterday you didn't want to talk to me, and now you want to go on a hunt?"

"It's been a couple days. I'm fine, Sammy, relax." He drains the last of his coffee in a series of gulps, and wipes his chin with the back of his hand. "I'm going stir crazy locked up in this place. I just need some fresh air. I'll let you do all the diggin' and burnin', if you want."

"Dean, that's not the — " Sam sighs as Dean gets up from his seat and goes to get more coffee. "We don't even have a car. The Impala's still got a busted windshield and Cas' Lincoln is a crater, so what do you want to do? _Walk_ to Hays?"

"We could do what we always do when we need a car," Dean says.

"Or," Jody says, walking into the kitchen and swiping Dean's newly-refilled mug right out of his hands, "instead of discussing grand theft auto in the presence of law enforcement, you could just borrow my truck."

Sam glares at her across the kitchen. She ignores him for her confiscated coffee.

"Or we could do that," Dean agrees. "Would certainly lend some cred to us being cops, showing up in her truck."

"Yeah, and how do we explain why a couple of detectives from Sioux Falls are investigating a murder in Kansas?"

Dean rolls his eyes and sets about finding another mug. "We don't need to. We already got a name; we're literally digging up a corpse and burning it. We don't even have to say hello."

Jody grabs a bowl and a box of cereal and sets up across from Sam. "It might be good for him, gettin' outside."

"It might be bad for everyone else," Sam points out. Jody didn't see Dean before, how he was acting, what the mark turned him into.

"Standing _right here_ ," Dean points out, a little petulant. "There's still two people on that spirit's to-do list. I dunno about you, but I ain't about to sit on my ass when it's a two-hour drive to make sure they both wake up tomorrow."

"I _do_ care," Sam snaps. "But we're still not going."

"Yeah, whatever you say, _dad_."

"Boys," Jody says calmly. "Dean, maybe Sam's right. You just got on your feet."

"I'm _fine_ ," Dean snaps.

"Clearly," Sam mumbles over his mug.

Jody shoots him a look, but turns back to Dean. "Look, if it's important, then maybe Sam and I can — "

"I'm not gonna fucking break!" Dean shouts.

Jody carefully places her mug back on the table and fixes him with a look.

Dean takes a breath and tries again. "It's just a spirit. I can handle it."

Jody looks at Sam with her brows raised. "He's got a point. That's a milk run for you guys, right?"

"Fine," Sam snaps. "But Cas is coming with us."

Dean glances up, his eyes tracking to the other side of the room, but there isn't anything there. "Yeah, whatever," Dean says. "I'm sure he could stretch his wings."

With Cas coming along, they don't need Jody's truck. ("I gotta do a milk run of my own, anyway. I don't know how you guys survive on nothing but preserved food.") Cas didn't seem to have an opinion one way or the other on Dean going on a hunt, but Sam felt better for having him along. He isn't sure he could control Dean if he lost his cool.

It takes just under four hours to dig up the body and burn it. Sam's worked up an appetite and Dean skipped breakfast, but the bunker's been picked clean until Jody's back from her grocery run. When Dean suggests hitting a diner, Sam's just relieved that Dean actually wants to eat.

By the time their food arrives, there's a story on the local news about another freak accident; two kids, this time, along with their father. All three managed to simultaneously choke while driving down the highway, even though the police found no evidence of food in the car.

They go back to the reports and dig a little deeper. Turns out the woman who died was the kid's nanny, not the mother. They find out the mother, a single parent, hasn't shown up for work in the two months since the accident, and none of her family or friends have been able to get a hold of her. Her car is still parked in the driveway, but the house is dark, and they find her barricaded in the basement. The door is locked tight with spellwork, and when Cas blows it open, Sam beats Dean to the stairs and gets himself thrown up against a wall.

Dean's right behind him, iron chain in hand, and whips it around her neck before she gets the chance to defend herself.

By the time Cas pulls Dean off, there's not enough left of her face for police to identify it if they tried. Sam decides to burn the body along with the house, and calls the fire department from a burner phone out on the street before Cas whisks them back to the bunker.

Nobody says anything as Dean washes his hands clean in the kitchen sink, turning the porcelain pink as he washes the blood away. It takes a minute with his hands shaking that badly, but Sam isn't sure if he's should move any closer, doesn't know which Dean he'll end up facing.

Dean turns off the water and rests his hands on the sink, head hanging low between his shoulders. His knuckles are raw and red, still bleeding from a few places the skin split.

Sam looks at Castiel, but the angel has his eyes on Dean; not demanding, just waiting, more patient than Sam. "Dean," he attempts.

"I know," Dean grinds back. He takes a breath and pushes off the sink, turning around to face them. "I know, okay? Save me the lecture."

Cas steps up beside him, sliding a hand over his shoulder. Sam winces in anticipation of the outburst, the snide remark of pseudo-macho bullshit that always follows that kind of gesture, but it never comes. Instead, Dean leans into the touch, tipping his head back and closing his eyes.

Sam jumps when the door to the kitchen swings open and Jody piles in, three paper bags hanging from her arms and one clutched tightly against her chest. "Oh hey, you're back," she smiles, bright and toothy, and Sam feels the air rush back into the room. "I hope you boys worked up an appetite, 'cause I got enough Knoephla to feed a small army. Who wants Juneberry pie?"

+

Sam gives it a day before going to find his brother. He's surprised to find the door to Dean's room wide open, soft orange light from his lamp filtering out into the hallway. He's more surprised to find Dean sitting on his bed, cross-legged in a t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants right beside Cas. The angel's wearing similar attire, a _Def Leppard_ logo branded on his shirt in faded letters. They're sharing a pair of earbuds plugged into the little mp3 player sitting on the sheets between them.

Dean has his head resting against the wall and his eyes closed. Cas is staring off into the middle-distance, listening carefully.

"I like this one," Cas says after a moment. He looks up as Sam rests against the door frame. "Hello, Sam."

Dean cracks open an eye but doesn't otherwise move. He looks at Sam for a moment before he sighs, sitting up. "Here," he says, passing the other earbud over along with the player to Cas. "Give us a minute."

Cas doesn't bother to get up, just vanishes in a whisper of wingbeats. Dean spreads out in the empty space and flops down. " _In My Time of Dying_ ," he says. "That's his favorite. Go figure."

Sam's sat through enough hours of _Physical Graffiti_ to have the damn thing memorized. "It fits."

"He likes the bass."

"Well, it's Jimmy Page, right?"

Dean opens his eyes and sits up, bracing his arms behind him and gives Sam a look of utter betrayal. " _John Paul Jones_ , are you — " Dean stops when he sees Sam's smirk and rolls his eyes. "God, you're an asshole."

"Between you and dad, I probably know more about that band than they knew about themselves," Sam says, coming into the room. Dean doesn't recoil when he sits on the bed, but won't meet his eyes, either. "So, uh, you and Cas," he attempts, and is surprised when Dean does look at him, eyes sharp.

"It's not," Dean starts and stops, licking his lips. His eyes dart around the room, like they're looking for the right words. "Simple," he is what he settles on. "But... yeah, we're, uh. We're good."

That seems like all Dean's prepared to say on the matter, and Sam doesn't want to push. Not with that, not after all this time. They'll figure it out. Probably. "About last night — "

Dean groans and rolls his eyes. "Yeah, Sammy, I know, _you told me so_. All right?" He rolls his legs off the side of the bed and stands up to stretch, wincing when something pops along his back. "Learned my lesson."

"I wasn't coming in here to lecture you." He waits until Dean stops cracking his neck and meets his eyes. "We'll figure this out, Dean, but you just got back to normal." Sam sees Dean set his jaw, the tendon in his neck jumping under his skin. "It's gonna take some time."

"There isn't a manual for this," Dean bites out. "It's not a fucking twelve-step program on how to be _normal_ again."

"So we take it one day at a time. I'm not saying you can't ever hunt, I'm just saying we have to be careful. Take it slow, let you learn what your limits are."

"So, what?" Dean snaps. "I just keep calm and carry on?"

Sam shrugs. "Cain did."

"Cain's a _demon._ "

"And how many people did he kill before Colette convinced him to stop?" Sam's not sure Dean doesn't need to him to spell it out, but he _is_ sure Dean needs to hear it. "Being a demon isn't a bonus, Dean. Being _human_ is. You don't have to work at it, the fundamentals are already there. And you got both of us to back you up."

"Assuming I don't get you both killed," Dean mutters, and rolls his eyes at the look Sam gives him. "You're the one drawing parallels here, man. He killed his brother, and ended up killing her, too."

"Yeah, well, Cain didn't have an angel holding the reigns," Sam points out. "Pretty sure Cas can beat you to the draw."

Dean flops back on the mattress with a light huff. "Yeah, and what happens when Cas decides he has better things to do?"

"Other than you, you mean?" Sam flips right back, and ducks the pillow Dean hurls at his head on his way out the door.

+

Sam wakes up for his run at 5:45am. The hallway outside Dean's room is quiet, but Sam doesn't knock; on the off-chance that Dean is actually asleep, he doesn't want to risk waking him.

The jog helps work out the little bit of cabin fever he's been feeling. He wonders how long it'll be before Dean goes stir-crazy from being huddled up in the bunker, and figures they'll deal with that when it comes. He's heading down the hall towards the showers when he hears a series of metallic clangs coming from the garage, and picks up a run without thinking.

Cas is standing in front of the Impala with a plastic bag in one hand and a tube of something in the other. Dean's leaning against the open hood of the car, laughing his ass off.

"I don't understand what is so amusing," Cas says, that sharp edge to his voice that Sam has learned to associate with annoyance. "You said you needed these."

Dean has doubled-over, hands on his knees and wheezing. Sam hasn't seen him laugh that hard in _years_. He doesn't go in, just watches from the doorway, curious.

"Dean," Cas says, voice like tires skidding across rough gravel.

"Sorry," Dean says, in-between giggles, thumbing tears out of his eyes. "It's just, when I said lube, oil, filter, I meant for the _car_."

Sam squints and takes a closer look at the items Cas is holding; what looks like a box full of coffee filters, a large bottle of canola oil, and a tube of —

"I don't see why it matters what sort of lube you use," Cas mutters, putting the _Astroglide_ back in the bag.

Dean cracks up all over again. Sam, rolling his eyes, leaves them to it.

+

_week two_

+

The problem with living underground is the body never knows what goddamn time it is.

Jody's usually up with the sun regardless of whenever she manages to bed down for the night. Working as a cop and a mother made everything routine, but monsters are generally nocturnal and without the sunlight to wake her every morning, she's been all over the place. She glances at her phone and blinks blearily at the digital display. It's too late or too early either way you look at it.

She pads down to the kitchen and fishes a beer out of the fridge, hoping it'll be enough to lull her back to sleep. She catches a faint murmur of laughter and white light coming from down the hall, and on a second thought, she grabs another beer.

Dean's on the couch in the den, curled up in front of the TV. His hair is shiny, still damp, and his face looks pale and washed-out in the dim light of the screen. One of those medical dramas is droning on low volume, but Dean's eyes are unfocused, not really watching.

"Heya," she says in greeting.

Dean starts, but only just; if she hadn't been watching him so closely she could have easily missed how his shoulders tense, how he blinks and shifts his gaze back towards the television. "Hi."

Jody steps up beside the couch. "Can't sleep?"

"Not right now," Dean says. "Schedule's all fucked up."

"Know how that is." She glances at his profile; he hasn't lost too much weight, which is surprising since she hasn't seen him eat. "So, are you — "

"If one more person asks me if I'm fine, I swear — "

"I wasn't," Jody interrupts him, "because my mother didn't raise me to be an idiot. I was just going to ask if you wanted some company."

Dean blinks, then glances at the empty end of the couch. Before she can move, though, he shrugs and scoots over towards the middle "Sure."

Jody takes the spot he made for her, and offers a beer. "And one of these?"

Something in his expression twists, almost a smile. "Yeah, thanks."

Jody's pretty sure he only turns up the volume for her benefit. The opening credits are the usual piano-guitar melody that manages to be sad and uplifting and annoyingly catchy all at once. "So... fan of _Dr Sexy_ , huh?"

"There ain't nothing else on this time of night."

"Yeah, except every other channel." She tucks her feet underneath the cushion he's sitting on and twists the cap off her beer. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me, Winchester."

Dean slants a glare her direction before rolling his eyes. "Shut up."

+

"Four cheese or garlic?"

Sam looks between the two jars of tomato sauce with pinched brows. "Uh... I don't know. Both?"

Jody sighs, but puts both in the cart. "The whole point is to get his favorites."

"Dean's really not that hard to please," Sam says. "If it says 'bacon' or 'pie' on the packaging, he'll eat it."

"So what you're saying is we need to find some bacon pie," Jody teases, and shakes her head at the face Sam makes. "You're not going to encourage him to eat with microwaveable meals and takeout, and quite frankly I've no idea how either of you are in the shape you're in considering the sustained junk-food diet." Sam opens his mouth to no doubt argue about that, but Jody holds up a hand. "Getting the salad option at Biggerson's doesn't count as healthy, Sam. You have a kitchen. You need to use it."

"Dean's the cook," Sam grumbles. "I can get by, okay? But he, I don't know. Honestly, I didn't even know he could cook like that until we moved into the bunker."

"Well, he fed you, didn't he?" Jody muses aloud, picking through the plastic-wrapped slabs of beef in the meat section. "Growing up, I mean. If John was always out hunting monsters, I doubt you had the money to order in every night."

"Yeah, I guess." Sam's quiet a moment before coming up behind her, and picking the second of the two steak packages she's considering. "If heating up canned spaghetti and opening a box of cereal count as cooking."

"Actually, that's not a bad idea." Jody wheels the cart around and heads towards the right aisle. "Maybe we're going about this wrong, c'mon."

Dean wanders into the kitchen while they're still putting things away. Cas is haunting his steps like a shadow, but nods acknowledgement when she greets him. Dean eyes the bowl on the table, the carton of milk, and the four different boxes of cereal on the table before looking at Sam and her in turn. "What’s this, an intervention?"

"Something like that," Jody says, and pulls out the chair. "Pick your poison."

Dean rolls his eyes and turns on his heel; Sam's face starts to pinch, but before he can say a word, Dean stops when the angel meets his eyes. They don't speak, but something happens in the space between them that she and Sam aren't privy to, a silent exchange that makes Dean sigh, rub irritably at his right forearm, and turn back around. "Fine," he grouses, slouching into a seat. He grabs the sugariest box of cereal from the bunch, pours the bowl with some milk, and shoves a loaded spoonful into his mouth. "Happy?"

"Ecstatic," Jody deadpans, and slides over a glass of orange juice. "And when you're done with that, you can help me clean up my truck."

+

"Remind me in the future," Jody whispers to Castiel, "cheesecake's not on the menu."

Castiel smiles, which is rare enough that she smiles back. The brothers continue to glare at one another across the table, even as Dean loads more of the offending desert into his mouth.

"Cake," Sam insists, stubborn as a bull. "Cheese _cake_ , Dean. Seriously."

"Uh, no," Dean says definitively. "Doesn't have icing, isn't a cake."

"Dude, it has _cake_ in the _name_."

"You know what else its got?" Dean holds up his slice for verification. " _Crust_. Cakes don't have crusts, Sammy. Pies have crusts!"

Jody looks to Castiel for help, but the angel shrugs. "My understanding is that any pastry that is a crumb crust filled with custard or fruit and baked qualifies as a pie. The addition of cream cheese is no more a disqualifier than the addition of alcohol would be." Both brothers turn to look at him, Sam squinting and Dean blinking back surprise. "Therefore, cheesecake is technically a pie."

Dean smirks triumphantly at Sam, but then Castiel continues on, "It can also be a cake, but it can't _not_ be a pie."

" _Thank_ you," Sam huffs, tossing the smirk right back at his brother.

Dean head drops back and lets his eyes roll towards the ceiling before glancing back at Cas, a look of utter betrayal on his face. "Cakes can have multiple layers. They're made with _flour_. They _rise_ when you bake them. Just because some idiot put 'cake' in the name doesn't mean squat. By every other definition, it's _pie_."

"Perhaps cheesecake requires its own category entirely," Castiel reasons, and Dean throws his hands in the air.

Jody takes her book and slips out of the library to leave them to it, despairing  at the minds of men and angels in general.

+

Sam catches another case, which leads to another heated non-argument about whether or not he should do it alone or pawn it off to another hunter nearby. Jody offered to go with, but got shot down on both fronts so quickly she gave up and let the brothers have it out.

"Look, if I need help, I'll call Cas, okay?" Sam snaps, but he sounds more exhausted than genuinely angry. "I can handle a couple of vamps. It's not like I've never hunted on my own, Dean."

"Yeah, I remember," Dean hurls back. "Thanks."

"Don't be an asshole. You know that isn't what I mean." Sam's eyes shift to Dean's arm, and the mark there. "One day at a time, remember?"

Dean bares his teeth and slaps his hand over it, skin turning white where his fingertips dig in. "Just fucking go, Sam."

That was two days ago, and Sam's called four times checking in on his brother. Dean hasn't asked what's taking so long, but Jody catches him watching the phone when Jody answers, listening in. He spends his days pacing the length of the library, grunting responses to any questions she asks, and even Castiel seems to be giving him space. Jody's pretty sure that Dean's running on nothing but coffee and whiskey and God-forbid what-else, and on the third night, makes the executive decision to cook dinner and force-feed it to him if necessary.

Thankfully, it doesn't come to that. Out of whiskey and with Cas refusing to supply more, Dean tromps into the kitchen to snag another beer.

"Holy crap, it smells good in here." Dean twists off the cap and tosses it in the trash, taking a swig while he looks over the counter. "Finally got tired of Sam's cooking, huh?"

"I wouldn't call heating up instant oatmeal _cooking_ ," she chides. It earns her a grin. "Figured between the cereal and the grain alcohol, you might _both_ benefit from some home-cooked meals."

He doesn't ask what she's making, but when she tells him to dice up an onion he puts his beer down and does it — and does it right, slicing it down the middle and leaving the root on to hold it together as he chops. She passes over the potatoes next, and is pleased when he slices them up without skinning.

"Wanna grab the beef out of the fridge and cube it while I put the bread in?"

Dean raises an eyebrow. "You made _bread?_ "

Jody pulls the bowl off the opposite counter and takes the wrap off. "Easier than picking up a loaf at the store, and the ingredients keep longer than the product."

They work mostly in silence; she learns that Dean really does know his way around a kitchen, and doesn't need direction once he figures out she's just making a stew. By the time the pot's loaded and simmering on the stove, the bread is ready to come out and cool while it cooks. Dean sticks around to help her clean up, washing the dishes and passing them over to her to dry.

"We've got a couple of hours to kill," she reports, stirring the contents of the pot. Dean's over her shoulder, sniffing at the contents before she replaces the lid. His stomach makes a noise of longing. Jody snorts. "I can make us some popcorn?"

"Meet ya in the den," Dean calls. "And bring some more beer."

Ten minutes later, Jody opts for the floor beside the couch Dean's stretched out on so he can steal popcorn out of her bowl while they watch a gaggle of medical interns gossiping about which doctor they want to bang. Somewhere between Dean leaving the kitchen and the popcorn heating up, Cas reappeared and took up his post Dean-adjacent, forearms balanced along the back of the couch. When Dean holds up a handful of popcorn, Cas takes a single kernel, peering at it curiously before popping it into his mouth, chewing with what looks like careful consideration.

Jody shifts so her back is to them, an illusion to privacy for whatever the heck is going on there, and takes a long pull off her beer.

"Hey," Dean says, tone accusatory, "what happened to my beer?"

"We're out," Jody says without turning around, but angles the bowl so he has easier access. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"

"I got thirsty."

"What d'you got against water?"

Dean throws a popcorn kernel at her as Castiel offers, "I could procure us more."

"That's the best idea I've heard all day," Dean declares, snatching her beer right off the floor and taking a swig. "Get me some pie while you're at it."

"I made pie yesterday," Jody points out, twisting around to glare at him.

Dean doesn't even have the decency to look guilty. "Yeah, I know. It's gone." He tilts his head back along the arm of the couch to look up at Cas. "Pecan, if they got it."

Cas looks down, expression openly fond. "And if they don't?"

The smile on Dean's face is nothing short of filthy. "Surprise me."

Jody takes advantage of the distraction to steal back her beer.

+

_week three_

+

A young girl without a face is standing in a white void. Her midsection is red and exposed, bleeding bright red from her wounds, staining her shirt and jeans. In her right fist, she holds the First Blade.

Dean is on his knees in front of her, staring down at his empty, bloody hands. _I'm sorry_.

 _I don't care_ , the girl with no face says, and raises the blade.

Before the blow lands Dean blurs, warps, and twists into something inhuman. Black wings made of smoke unfurl around him in a hiss like a snake, jaws opening wide. The girl screams as the creature lunges, and Dean jerks awake with a start.

Castiel does not reach for him, knows better than to try and touch him when he wakes like this. Dean acts on instinct when he's frightened, will reach for a weapon and attack before reality catches up. Castiel extends his grace instead, lets his energy curl around Dean and remind him that he's safe, that the demons in his head can't reach him here.

Dean takes a breath and flops back, forehead and neck shiny with sweat. "Knock it off," he mumbles, swatting at the incorporeal touch. Castiel obliges, reels his influence in and steps out where he can be seen. Dean keeps his eyes closed, rubbing a hand over his face and into his hair. "Pretty sure I told you to keep out of my head."

Castiel sees the bravado for what is is and doesn't offer an apology. "Your mind and your body are exhausted. They need to rest."

"I'm fine, Cas. It was just a dream."

 _Dream_ , not nightmare. Dean doesn't dream of much else, anymore, and Castiel wonders if that's why he no longer bothers to distinguish the two. "I wish you would allow me to help."

"I said I'm — " Dean cuts off as he opens his eyes and looks at Castiel, letting his head drop back against the pillow. "It's nothing new, okay? Kinda comes with the job."

"It's nothing to be ashamed of — "

"Really?" Dean snaps, sitting back up. "Nothing to be ashamed of? Are you kidding me? She was just a kid, Cas. And I —  " He closes his eyes and grips his right arm, twisting the skin of his arm with enough force to bruise. "She didn't deserve that. None of them did."

Castiel opens his mouth and then hesitates, but even with his eyes closed, Dean hears the pause. "What?"

"She might have survived," Castiel admits. "I was able to to slow the blood loss. I don't know if it helped."

Dean only stares at him for a few seconds, but it feels much longer. "And you're just telling me this _now?_ "

"I — " Castiel manages to stop himself from finishing, _didn't think it was important_.

"Jesus fucking Christ." Dean scrubs at his face with his hands, then swings his feet off the bed. "The minute you got your wings back, that should've been the _first_ thing you did. I shouldn't have to _tell_ you this shit anymore, Cas. Fuck."

"You're right." _But I was looking for you_. He doesn't say it, Dean already knows it. And the past two weeks — well, Cas has been so focused on Dean's well being, he hasn't thought of anything else. "I'm sorry."

Dean pauses in pulling a fresh shirt out of the dresser, staring at the clump in his hands. He puts it down and leans his head back, sighing. "Don't be. You didn't do that to her." He sheds the clothes he's wearing and starts pulling on a fresh set, keeping his back to Castiel. "Do you know where they took her?"

"No, but she isn't warded." Dean nods, and grabs his gun from beneath his pillow, his wallet off the nightstand. "I can go alone — "

"No," Dean says, sitting on the end of the bed to pull on his boots.

"It's the middle of the night — "

"Good. Less people around to ask questions."

"We should at least tell Sam — "

"Let him sleep."

"Dean — "

"This isn't up for discussion," Dean says, and though he sounds calm, Castiel can perceive the desperate rage beneath the surface. "If you don't want to help me, I'll drive."

Castiel doesn't even dignify that with a response.

The sun is closer to rising on the east coast, and peeks in the blinds along the windows of her hospital room, casting vertical lines of grey light across the bed. The only sound is the steady beep of the medical equipment. Dean stares at the figure in the bed for a long time before moving forward, taking the chart off the end and flipping through it.

"She's been out the whole time," he says, tipping back a few more pages. "Still reacts to stimuli, so they haven't pulled the plug. And they — Jesus." He puts the chart down on the bed and grips the handholds at the end, hanging his head between his shoulders.

Castiel doesn't hesitate this time. Dean's shoulder twitch at the unexpected touch, but he doesn't pull away.

The room stills, interrupted only by the consistent _beep_ of the machine and Dean's ragged breathing.

"Okay, enough." Dean inhales sharply and pulls away. Castiel lets his hand fall back to his side. "What the hell are you waiting for?"

Castiel circles around to the side of the bed and lays a hand on the girl's forehead, closing his eyes.

The damage is more extensive than the image of the girl suggests. It's unlikely that, left as is, she will ever wake up. While the blade tore through her heart and pierced a lung, both were operated on and are healing. The injury to her spinal cord, however, and the brain damage from lack of oxygen, are beyond her doctor's skill to heal.

Fortunately, they are not beyond his.

It doesn't take him long, and she'll keep the scars as a reminder, but she'll wake up and walk again. "You can remove this," Castiel tells him, indicating the respirator. "She'll wake when she's ready."

Dean does, and Castiel wonders how hands that can kill so effectively can simultaneously be so gentle, so careful. "We should leave before she does," he says. "She'll still probably want to kill me, and I don't know if I got it in me to stop her."

"I could," Castiel hesitates, but presses on. Dean did it for Lisa. "If you want, I can make sure she has no memory of this." He indicates the scars hidden beneath the blankets. "And make up a plausible reason for her friends and any residual emotional trauma."

Dean looks at him for the first time since they entered the room, skin washed white by the early morning light.

"Car accident," Castiel suggests gently. "A hunt gone bad."

"No," Dean says, quickly. "Thanks, but no. I can't just pretend this never happened. And I can't make that decision for her." He glances at the girl then back at Castiel. "Can you give me a minute?"

Castiel waits outside the room. He doesn't linger hidden to watch, doesn't reach out to eavesdrop. A nurse shuffles quietly down the hall doing rounds, and when she gets to Castiel, he waves her by, gently influencing her to forget about this room for now, to remember to come back to it later.

Dean comes out three minutes later, sliding the glass door quietly closed. He's wearing that carefully blank expression he uses when he's overwhelmed, compartmentalizing his grief and guilt so they don't interfere with his ability to function. Castiel knows if he tries to sleep now, the nightmares will be unbearable.

"We probably have another hour or two before Sam and Jody wake up," he points out. "Would you like to get some coffee?"

"Yeah," Dean says, distracted, but looks up when Cas places a hand on his shoulder. "Coffee sounds good."

+

Castiel has become so acutely aware of Dean's whereabouts over the past few weeks that when he wants to find him, he merely has to extend a part of himself like a tether and tug. The connection snaps tight and then Castiel is beside him, watching Dean strip the wayward vines off the inside of the windows. He turns around and inhales sharply when he sees Castiel, cursing under his breath.

"Sorry," Castiel offers.

"S'fine," Dean mumbles, tugging on the plants until they shake loose, stripping three vines at a time. "Think I'd be used to it by now."

They're in a level of the bunker Castiel has never seen before. Long windows replace the east-facing wall and a portion of the ceiling, letting in the early morning light. Some of the windows are open or missing panels, allowing nature to venture inside. A small porch opens up on the north end behind a set of double doors. There's enough forest on that side of the hill the bunker is buried in to hide the place from prying eyes, but still allow some open air.

The rest of the walls are dark grey stone like the floors below, but the floors are hardwood, dull with dust and scuff marks and dead leaves. There's a kitchenette in the back, along with a door that leads to another room; upon closer inspection, an old washroom, complete with an ancient-looking tub. The space to the north is mostly open, aside from a few desks that have begun to rot from exposure to moisture and four small, wire-frame beds.

"Kevin found it," Dean says, when he sees Castiel looking. "According to the archives, the Men of Letters kept the help up here. Couldn't have the maids bunking with the guys downstairs, I guess." He yanks on a particularly stubborn strip of ivy, pulling it off the wall along with the molding. "Been meaning to clean it up for a while now, just never had the time."

Dean cuts it off with his knife, wrapping the vines between his hands, and nods at a pile of more on the floor beside him. "Grab that one?"

They toss the offending vines off the edge of the porch. The sun is peeking over the horizon, making the water dew along the grimy windowpanes. The woods and pastures beyond are covered in a hazy grey mist, silence broken by the sharp, garbled song of the meadowlarks beginning to wake and look for their mates.

Dean dusts off his hands and just listens for a while, before shivering and ducking back inside. There's an old wood-burning furnace in the corner and Castiel lights it with a glance. Dean blinks at the light and then at Castiel, and smiles. "Thanks." He wipes his hands on his jeans and glances at the beds piled in the opposite corner. "You wanna give me a hand?"

By the time the sun is high overhead, the room has warmed enough that Castiel extinguishes the fire. It will take some time before the cold doesn't make Dean so uncomfortable anymore, and in the meantime Castiel doesn't mind lending him some warmth. He banishes the beds and the rotting furniture with a touch, allowing Dean to sweep away the dust and leaves. The countertops of the old kitchen takes a little more work, Dean scrubbing at the stubborn mold and stains until they leave behind a pristine white tile ("Nothin' beats good old fashioned elbow grease, Cas."). The pungent chemical smell of bleach lingers in the air afterward, mixing with the sweet smell of the woods outside.

Dean stretches his legs out on the clean hardwood, resting his back against the wall. Castiel leaves and returns in an instant, and Dean blinks up at him when Castiel hands him a beer. "Uh... thanks."

Castiel sits beside him, and glances up at the vaulted ceiling and the skylights. "I can clean those for you, if you like."

Dean follows his gaze and nods, twisting the cap off his bottle. "Yeah. I mean, not _now_ , but," he takes a sip and swallows. "Still gotta clean out the bathroom. Probably get a fridge up here, once I check the wiring on those outlets."

Castiel nods like he knows what the significance of any of that is, has learned that eventually, the meaning always follows. "What do you plan to do with this place?"

"Dunno. Too bright for a TV with all the windows, maybe fix it up as a mother-in-law." Castiel nods again but Dean catches it, this time, and goes on to explain. "Guestroom, basically. Better than the closets we sleep in downstairs."

Dean would be hard put to admit it, but Castiel knows he enjoys his room, relishes in the fact that he has his own space. Sam, by contrast, seems restless in this place, ever-resistant to getting comfortable from experience, too used to losing anything he ever had to call his own. "You could make this yours," Castiel points out. "This is your home, now."

"I like my room just fine," Dean insists. He takes another long drink before pushing up, offering Castiel a hand up. "C'mon, I'm starving. Let's see what Jody's got for leftovers."

Castiel opts to take the stairs with him, an ornate, twisted metal thing that spirals down to the lower levels. The bunker is quiet with just the two of them; Sam and Jody went together to hunt down a pair of vetala a few hours south, but according to the call Dean took this morning, should be back any moment now. Castiel enjoys the quiet in the meantime, takes the opportunity to watch Dean work in the kitchen and listen to him think, how he concentrates on what he's doing to keep the stillness from overwhelming him.

He is allowed to help in the way of heating the leftover chili up in the microwave while Dean watches the cornbread rise in the oven.

Jody and Sam return just in time for the oven to ding and join them for the meal. Castiel doesn't indulge — he doesn't need to eat, though Dean seems to enjoy making him try things occasionally even if anything he consumes is simply wasted.

It always makes Dean smile, when Castiel acquiesces, and that alone makes it worth it.

Jody's first to clear her plate and she hands it over to Castiel when offers to take it, and collects Dean's when he passes his over, before piling the dishes in the sink.

"Thanks for grub, but I'm gonna hit the sack," Jody says through a yawn. "I dunno about you two, but I need more than four hours to function."

"Sounds good," Sam says, when Dean only answers her with a yawn. "You look pretty beat, too."

"Finally got up to cleaning out upstairs," Dean says through another yawn.

"Yeah?" Sam's still working on his second helping of food and Castiel lingers by the doorway, waiting for Dean. "Make any progress?"

"I had some help," Dean admits, glancing over at Castiel. "Might take a couple of weeks to replace the broken windows, but yeah, it's coming along."

"Great," Sam says. "It's good you're keeping busy, y'know, until you're — "

"Yeah," Dean interrupts. "I'm — getting there. One day at a time, right?"

"Right," Sam echoes, scraping his bowl with his spoon.

There's a loaded pause between the brothers, caught in the tangle of words left unsaid, until Dean exhales heavily and licks his lips. "You good to clean up?"

Sam nods, but calls out, "Dean," as Dean pushes up from the table. He glances at Castiel before continuing. "I've been meaning to ask you. Some of the things you said," he starts, picking at a piece of corn with his spoon, chasing it around the bowl, "during the injections. About dad, and you and me."

Castiel can see the long line of Dean's body jerk as his joints stiffen, can feel the panic bloom and spread down his limbs even as Dean forces a scoff. "You know I wasn't — "

"I know," Sam says, but doesn't look up as Dean takes his plate over to the sink, the sound of water from the faucet filling in the pause with white noise. "But... how much of it was true?" When Dean doesn't answer, Sam looks up, glancing at Castiel again before turning to look at his brother. "The stuff about when we were kids, that you..."

Dean shuts off the water and turns around, eyes finding Castiel in silent challenge to stay quiet. Castiel looks away.

"C'mon, Sam, seriously?" Sam doesn't answer, just holds his brother's gaze. Dean licks his lips. "You really think I — demons lie, man. I was just trying to get under you skin." Sam's face twists, not buying the lie, but eases when Dean claps him on the shoulder. "It worked."

Sam looks to Castiel, but Castiel doesn't acknowledge it. It's not up to him to decide what secrets Dean wants to keep. Sam lets out a shuddering breath, then shrugs. "Yeah, I guess. I was just — okay. Good."

"Good," Dean echoes, moving towards the hall. "I'm pretty beat, so I'm gonna hit the hay."

"Yeah," Sam answers, prodding at his plate.

Castiel follows, leaving Sam alone with his misgivings, and finds Dean around the corner, one shoulder resting against the wall. "Don't you fucking tell him," Dean says without turning around. "Don't say a goddamn word."

He won't, and Dean already knows it. Sam wants to believe Dean, so he will, despite whatever doubt. Castiel reaches out, placing a hand on Dean's shoulder. Dean tenses at the touch and starts to shake, and Castiel reels him in, wordlessly offering comfort and Dean takes it, lets Castiel's wings curl around them both, doesn't even notice as Castiel shifts them out of the hallway and into Dean's room.

"Fuck," Dean grunts wetly in the space between them. "Okay, _enough_." Palms press against his chest and Castiel lets go, lets Dean back up and reclaim his own space. He sits down heavily on the bed, scrubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands. "Sorry."

"You have nothing to apologize for," Castiel points out. "Or to be ashamed of. You did what you had to to take care of him."

"Yeah," Dean says, sucking down a wet breath. "Thanks, Dr. Phil."

+

It's like an itch, just under Castiel's skin. Prickling at the epidermis, faintly scratching at the back of his skull. Dean's angry, like he hasn't been in a while, not since before Metatron plunged his blade through Dean's heart.

It reminds Castiel of the time Dean wouldn't talk to him because Castiel had left with the Angel tablet. How Dean was so angry he  wouldn't even meet Castiel's eyes until Castiel called him on it. And when Dean finally looked at him, Castiel wished he hadn't. The unmasked hurt in his gaze struck Castiel to his core, made him ache in ways that he didn't realize he could.

Castiel feels it now, even if it isn't directed at him. Dean's just hurting in general, and the anger floods in like self-defence.

"You could have gone with them," Castiel points out.

Dean's shoulders twitch, tensing and shaking loose in an instant as he breathes out. "It's fine, Cas. They can handle a couple of ghouls."

Sam could handle ghouls on his own, much less with Jody's help, but they both know that isn't the point. Castiel sighs.

" _I'm_ fine," Dean insists angrily. He takes a seat in one of the chairs beside the table, scraping it noisly along the floor. "Knock off the passive-aggressive sulk fest already."

"You're not fine. You're unhappy," Castiel insists. He feels it like a constant ache deep in his chest, a tight grip around his throat that makes it difficult to swallow. "You don't like being cooped up in here, but you won't talk to Sam, and you won't talk to me. We want to help you through this, Dean, but you have to _let_ us."

"And what exactly is there to talk about?" Dean snaps back, sharp edge of his voice making Castiel wince. "It's not like I can just _forgive me Father for I have sinned_ my way through all the shit, man. I just," Dean takes a deep, shuddering breath too fast, and it catches in his throat. He rubs at the mark on his arm distractedly. "I don't even know where to start."

"You don't need to ask for forgiveness, you already have it." Castiel is sure about that, from himself and Sam both. "But you need to figure out how to forgive yourself. This is only temporary, Dean."

Dean takes a breath before looking up, meeting his eyes. "And if it isn't?"

"Then we'll figure it it," Castiel presses on, when Dean rolls his eyes. He places a hand on Dean's shoulder.  "Together. I'm not saying there isn't any risk, but you're going to have to learn how to trust yourself again."

Dean sags into the grip. "Honestly, Cas, I don't know if I ever trusted myself in the first place."

"Then start with trusting us." Dean blinks up at him, confused, and Castiel shifts his hand, running his fingers through the short hairs at the base of Dean's head. "Trust me and Sam to help you get there."

Dean looks at him for a long time and Castiel feels the arguments forming behind those green eyes, but he closes his eyes before Castiel can catch the thread of it. "Okay."

"Okay," Castiel agrees.

Dean doesn't pull away, so he keeps his hand where it is, fingers idly carding through his hair. The kitchen is quiet with just the two of them, aside from the insistent leaky faucet Dean has given up on fixing. Dean tilts his head a little under Castiel's touch, granting access, so Castiel moves the touch down, pinching lightly at the muscle where Dean's neck meets his shoulder. He's answered with a deep groan of appreciation so Castiel uses both hands, careful not to press or pinch too hard, using large, soothing movements over the muscles of Dean's back and shoulders and small, tight circles to work out the knots as he finds them.

Usually Castiel would use his grace, let his energy seek out the injuries and heal them, but Dean seems to enjoy the touch. His skin is smooth and warm beneath Castiel's fingers, unblemished aside from the occasional scar, each one telling their own story. Dean seems to be partial to Castiel working high along his shoulders, tilting his head back when Castiel's thumb pulls along his collarbone to his jaw, kneading the muscle along the side of his neck.

"This would be easier if you took your shirt off," Castiel points out.

Dean opens his eyes, and a light flush works its way up neck and over his cheeks. "Uhh... maybe later," Dean mumbles, sounding flustered. He sits forward and rolls his shoulders, twisting his neck back and forth. "But if you're serious about riding along playing cops and monsters, there's a couple things you need to brush up on."

Castiel follows him out of curiosity, since there isn't much to be taught about hunting he doesn't already know. Dean leads him into the gun range and puts on a pair of earmuffs and a pair of safety glasses. He pulls out his gun, motioning Castiel to stand off to the side. He stands with his feet shoulder-width apart, and leans forward as he brings his arms up, the handgun nestled secure in his grip. Both eyes are open and between the intake and exhale of breath, he squeezes the trigger.

The gun kicks back hard, but Dean's body is so used to it by now he barely moves, lets the shock be absorbed up his arm and into his shoulder and squeezes again. And again, and again, until the slide locks back, barrell still smoking from the rapid fire.

He jerks his head at Castiel he replaces the clip, cocking back the slide to load another round into the chamber. He takes it by the barrell and offers it to Castiel. "Let's see what you've got."

"I don't require a firearm anymore," Castiel points out, but takes the gun anyway. This one is Dean's personal favorite, with the shiny engraved nickel coating and mother-of-pearl grips.  

"You do if you wanna help watch my back," Dean says, taking him by the shoulders and directing him in front of the range. "What happens the next time you end up powerless, you going to hope the bad guys come close enough to use your knife?"

"In that highly unlikely scenario," Castiel says, glancing at Dean over his shoulder, "I'm sure I'll figure something out."

Dean catches his gaze, and it reminds Castiel of the lingering despair beneath the green. "Humor me."

Castiel lines up the gun sights in one hand and squeezes. The kick startles him, but doesn't knock him back; Dean is standing directly behind him, arms on his shoulders, holding him steady.

"Don't be so quick on the trigger. Here." He adjusts Castiel's stance with his body to match his own, a heavy palm between Castiel's shoulders pressing him forward. "Don't lean back. It's easy to forget, you gotta work at it until it comes natural. And your grip," he steps up flush behind Castiel, arms snaking around his shoulders, to show him how the grip should sit firmly between his palms. "Don't cup your hand like that, or cross your thumbs. And never have your finger on the trigger unless you're about to pull it," Dean says in his ear, warm breath blooming down Castiel's neck. "Keep your index along the barrel until you're ready to shoot."

"You shoot with one hand," Castiel points out, blinking as Dean slides a pair of glasses over his eyes. "And I don't need those."

"Safety first, hotshot. And I've had a lot of practice," Dean says, stepping back. "I shouldn't. Two hands give you better control and better aim, but sometimes you need one hand to hold a knife, so." He shrugs. "Center of the target. Empty the clip, and your grouping will tell us what we need to work on."

Castiel holds his breath and squeezes the trigger seventeen times, until the slide locks back and the only sound is the metallic _ping_ of a shell casing hitting the floor, rolling to a stop between his feet.

Dean pulls off the ear and eye protection and squints at the target. "Damn," he says.

"What?" Castiel asks. "The goal is to hit the center of the target, correct?"

"Guess it's easy when you don't have to breathe." Dean's smiling, though, and that's a massive improvement. "Now let's see what you can do with a rifle."

+


	13. Chapter 13

**driveshafts and differentials**

* * *

  


xii.

  


"I can't do anything else without ore," Castiel complains. 

"Sucks to be you," Dean says, and rolls.

It may have been a dick move to set up a monopoly on the map for the ore since he's the only one who actually knew how to play, but Dean plays to _win_. Charlie wasn't any easier on him when she showed him the ropes. 

"Another city? Seriously?" Sam makes his bitch face and Dean smiles at him, bright and toothy. "I have fifteen goddamn sheep and a bale of wheat!"

"That's a damn shame, 'cause I could really use _sixteen_ sheep in exchange for a couple ore."

Things get a little hairy when Sam enlists Castiel's help and tries to snake around Dean's base of operations towards the coast, going for the dock that'll let them swap out sheep for whatever they need. Dean might accidentally place a road in their way, and ducks when Sam throws a settlement at him.

"Can I buy another development card?" Jody asks, and Dean passes it over without looking. "Thanks."

"This is stupid," Sam grouses. "Now you have both ambiguous docks _and_ the only ore deposits on the board, dude."

"And your point is...?"

Sam and his fifteen sheep glare are Dean from across the board. "This is why nobody ever wants to play Monopoly with you."

"'Cause I win?"

"'Cause you're a _dick_."

"How many points do we need to win?" Jody asks, counting through her cards.

"Ten," they both chorus back at her. Dean throws a cheeto at Sam, and hits him square in the face. "Don't be a little bitch, Sammy. This is capitalism at its finest. Free market rules. Didn't they teach you that shit at Stanford?"

"They also taught us about the Sherman Act," Sam snaps back.

"Whether or not Dean's monopoly is illegal is a moot point," Cas interrupts. "I believe Jody just won."

And she did, fair and square, between four tiny settlements and attaining way too many development cards while Dean was busy pissing off his little brother. Which means she gets to pick the movie, and when she queues up _Pretty In Pink_ on Netflix Dean groans, flopping sideways down the couch. 

"If you're gonna make me watch this, I'm gonna be comfortable," he mutters. Jody shrugs and curls up on the floor with a couple of pillows and Sam takes the armchair, already yawning.

He does lean up, though, so Cas can sit down before using his thigh as pillow. "What's the movie about?"

Dean yawns. "Some 80's brat-pack teen romance."

"It's a cult classic!" Jody shouts from the floor.

"Spoiler alert: there's no sex," Dean stage-whispers.

Dean falls asleep somewhere between the third and fourth time Andie breaks down in tears. When he opens his eyes he's confused for an instant, not remembering where he is, and nearly rolls off the couch.

A warm hand catches his shoulder before he moves, smoothing down the fabric of his t-shirt and reassuring him which way is up. He squints into the dark, trying to get his eyes to adjust. "Cas?"

"Good morning," the darkness answers. A light flickers on in the corner and Dean blinks again, rubbing at his eyes to clear them. "You feel asleep in the middle of the movie."

"Sorry," Dean mumbles, rolling up to a sitting position. His cheek feels a little weird, little creases molded into the skin. It's colder in here than he realized; that, or Cas was keeping him warm. He scrubs a hand over his face and blinks again. "What time is it?"

"Early," Cas answers. "Sam isn't up yet."

Dean thinks about going to his room and catching another couple of hours, but he didn't have any nightmares this time, and doesn't want to ruin his day before it starts. He stands up gingerly, stretching, and winces as something in his back pops. He's got a laundry-list of shit to do around here, but it's too dark to work on the upstairs, too early to start up the laundry, and he's been putting off taking care of the car for too long, anyway.

Cas follows him through the halls without invitation and Dean blinks as the garage lights up bright as day around him. The Impala sits in the center, clean and with a new windshield, but still bullet-ridden. Dean's mostly been putting this off because he doesn't have the tools he needs to fix her up, not properly. It's gonna be a big project, but it's gotta start somewhere.

The bullet in the radio and the dash come out easy enough, but one went straight through the glovebox. It missed the engine by about an inch and got lodged deep in the radiator, low enough that Dean won't be able to get to it from under the hood. 

Dean's about to dig out the jack from the trunk when he has an idea. "Hey," he says, and jerks his head at the front fender. "Can you lift her up?"

Cas gives him a look, but bends down to take the bumper in one hand and lift, letting Dean slide underneath where he's got easy access to the radiator. "I don't know why you insist on referring to your car as a female."

"Because it's a _she_." It's a tight fit between the fan and the radiator, but Dean manages to get his hand through. "Hold her steady, okay? I need to work this one out."

"Would you like me to — " 

"Just hold her steady," Dean grunts out between his teeth. Keeping hold of the wrench is precarious enough, and he doesn't really have the focus to argue at the same time. 

He hears a long exhalation of breath from above. "I'm just trying to help."

His grip on the slug slips and the wrench clatters to the ground beside his head. Dean lets his head rest against the ground, rolling his eyes at the engine bay. "You are helping. I gotta do some things on my own."

"Is that why you insist on making it so difficult?"

"Are we talking about me or the goddamn car?" Dean snaps. "You know, your three weeks were up like a month ago. You don't have to stick around."

"I'm aware," Cas says, voice tight. 

Dean shouldn't press, but it might be better to get it over with than to hold off only to be disappointed later. Or maybe he's just fucking things up again. Maybe he shouldn't piss off the angel holding up a car over his head. "And?"

"And I'm still here," Cas answers. Dean can't see his expression, but he sounds like he's making that pinched-face he gets when he's annoyed. "Do you want me to go?"

"I didn't say that, did I?" Quit while you're fucking ahead, Winchester. "I just meant, you _can_ go. If you want to."

"Well, I _don't_ want to."

Dean finishes pulling the bullet out of the radiator and rolls to his feet, tossing the slug into the toolbox. "Not right now, maybe. I just mean you can, you know. When you want."

"You are being incredibly frustrating." Cas puts the car down carefully before turning around. "I never _wanted_ to leave, Dean. I was just trying to do what was best for you."

Dean wipes his hands off on a rag, picking at the motor oil already lodged beneath his fingernails. "Yeah, well, did you think maybe I had a say in that?"

"Not at first." Cas actually has the decency to look ashamed. "I'm not saying I made the right decision. But you can be so..." whatever Dean can be, Cas can't seem to put a finger on it, and he just exhales, breath pouring out in a rush. 

Dean pops the hood, careful to keep his hands off the upholstery. "So what, you're content with this?" He makes an expansive gesture with his hands to signify the bunker, the garage, the two of them fixing up his damn car. "No more holy crusades? Hangin' up the halo for good?"

"I don't," Cas starts and stops again, scowling as Dean slips past him to prop up the hood. "I don't see why it has to be one or the other."

Dean knows he should lay off, but this has been bugging him for weeks, that he's going to wake up one morning and find Cas has taken off, no explanation, and chooses to ignore any prayers Dean sends his way. He can't just scrape by with the big scary unknown hanging over his head.

He always blames Cas for leaving but in truth, Dean really can't. Dean knows he's a pain in the ass, that seventy percent of what comes out of his mouth is sarcastic and the rest is just offensive. He barks orders instead of making requests, won't listen to music that isn't older than he is, and eats a steady diet of crap that's finally starting to catch up with him. Dean can count on one hand the things he's good at, and killing's at the top of the list. The mark on his arm is testimony to that. Hell, if he'd been in Cas' shoes he'd have left, too.

"I'm not trying to be an asshole, okay?" He takes a seat on the toolbox and balls the rag, wiping away the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. "It just, whatever this is, I need some kinda clue on what to expect."

"I don't know what to tell you that I haven't already."

"You can start with whatever the hell is going on in there," Dean says, indicating Cas' forehead with a jab of his finger. "You say you're not going to leave, then fine. I'm asking _why_."

Cas just stares at him for a minute, squinting until his gaze goes unfocused as Dean's request sinks in. "It's difficult to put into words."

"Try me."

Cas glares at him, then at the car, like she's the reason he's in such a foul mood all of a sudden. "This... feeling, or whatever it is, it's... unpleasant. My body is perfectly healthy and yet I constantly feel _ill_. And I'm worried. _All the time_. About you. I can't think about anything else." Cas looks a little constipated, or maybe that's just frustration trying to manifest. Maybe it's both. Cas does eat sometimes, but do angels poop? "I don't know how to explain it," and wow, okay. Dean tries to focus because Cas looks angry, actually. Not at Dean or anything in particular, just general annoyance at the universe as a whole. "I can explain it in Enochian," he goes on, like _that'll_ help anything. "There isn't — words that you would understand do not _exist._ "

"You had it right the first time." Dean just blurts it out, a little leftover hiccup from his demon vacation, a moment of no-filter, before it's too late to take it back. "'I love you'," he says, like he's telling Cas how to order a pizza or something. "Those are the words you want, Cas." 

Cas stares at him again. He still looks angry, and that's not really fair, what with Dean basically doing the heavy lifting, here. 

"No," Cas says and Dean blinks, because that's bullshit and they both know it. Dean's known it for a while now and has felt it to his fucking _core_ , is pretty sure it's still seared along his insides from Cas' grace. "No," Cas says again, softer this time, expression pinched. "Love doesn't begin to cover it."

Dean doesn't know how he goes from sitting down to standing up, but feels himself move towards Cas, hesitates before making contact, and settles on resting his ass against the table beside him. "Maybe not," he admits, because part of him agrees, gets that there aren't words in any language that bundles it all up in a bow. "But," he says, and waits until Cas looks at him, "it's a good place to start."

Cas sighs, deflating, and Dean meets him halfway to take Cas' weight against his shoulder. He still looks upset and Dean hates it, wants more than anything to _fix it_ , and wonders if this is how Cas felt, begging him to save what was left of his soul.

 _Helpless_ , that's the word.

"It's pretty fucked up, not gonna lie." Cas doesn't move, but Dean sees his head tilt, taking in the words. "You, me. Me and Sam. It's like we can't not fuck it up somehow, no matter how hard we try. And I don't know how to _fix_ that, but," he exhales, hard, and feels Cas lean into him. "We just keep trying, 'til we get it right."

"And what if we don't?" Cas asks the floor. "What if we just keep — fucking it up?"

The curse sounds weird coming out of his mouth, like he isn't used to saying it despite how much he hears it. Dean pushes off the car and pulls Cas with him so he can close the hood.

"I've lost count of how many times I've replaced her motor." Dean isn't sure where he's going with this, but Cas stays quiet, just listening. "The miles we drive, man, her engine wasn't made to just run forever, not like the big-rig diesels. The transmission holds up pretty well, but I go through timing belts like candy and don't get me started on the alternator. Point is, she needs all that to keep running, but the important stuff, the stuff that counts?" He runs a hand along the windowsill, down the front fender. "That doesn't ever change. She isn't just a frame or drivetrain or a set of wheels. She's a sum of the parts. She's home."

Cas is still watching him, but there's a glint in his eyes that looks more curious than despondent, like a dog trying to understand words being spoken to it. "Your fixation with this car had always puzzled me," Cas says. "Before, I mean. I couldn't understand why you were so fond of something inanimate."

"Hey, now," Dean says, reproachful. "Baby's the one damn thing in this life that has never let me down."

"I said before," Cas repeats. "Even human, I couldn't really comprehend the function of sentimentality, even if I felt myself experiencing it. I'm not sure I can now, but," he shrugs. "At the same time, I understand it." He runs his fingers along the hood, stopping before his hand brushes Dean's. He has a weird look on his face, not-quite-smiling. "I feel regret about the Lincoln."

Dean remembers fire falling from the sky, the intense tsunami of heat from an archangel's smiting, and winces. "Yeah, uh," he pulls his hand away, rubbing at the back of his neck. He'd be out of his mind if Baby had taken the blow. "Sorry about that. Guess I owe you some new wheels."

"Technically, Gabriel destroyed it." Castiel shrugs, feigning indifference, but Dean sees right through it. "Anyway, I don't need a vehicle anymore. I have my wings."

"Uh-huh," Dean says. He jerks his head at the passenger door. "Humor me."

Castiel squints at him but climbs inside, and maybe it's simple acquiescence because it's easier, but Cas is as stubborn as a damn ox and never misses the chance to argue. Dean suspects it has more to do with his voluntarily leaving the bunker, because he needs fresh air or vitamin D or what-the-fuck-ever.

"I need some shit to fix her up, anyway," Dean throws across the front seat. 

Cas runs his fingers along the edge of the bullet holes lodged in the dash. "I could fix this for you."

"No," Dean snaps. Cas' hand pulls back, and Dean lets out a breath. "Thanks, but I like to work on her myself."

"Okay," Cas says, eyes forward.

"But, uh," Dean fumbles with the gear lever and the words, almost reversing back into the garage door, "I can show you a couple things. If you want."

Cas looks up and smiles. "I'd like that."

+

It's a six-hour drive to Sioux Falls, and with a busted radio and a silent angel riding shotgun, it feels like twelve.

Bobby's old junkyard is bright and oddly serene covered in a foot of fresh snow, all white and sparkly like some hick's winter wonderland. Dean actually checks his phone to make sure it's still September; it's gonna be a cold one, this year.

Cas waits in the car as Dean unlocks the padlock on the gate and pushes it aside, the rusted wheels along the chainlink squealing in protest. The Impala's wheels spin a little when he presses down on the accelerator, rear end fishtailing before finding some grip and straightening out. There's no muddy tire tracks cut through the yard, cast in long shadows without the spotlights, and the old metal trash can they used to burn in the shop sits frigid and dark like everything else.

Dean's breath mists thickly in front of him when he steps out of the Impala. By the time it dissipates, Cas is standing in front of him. A year ago, Dean would've given him shit about knowing how to use a door handle, but Cas just got his mojo back and he hasn't really left the bunker since Dean came back, so Dean bites back the words. Gotta let the guy stretch his wings, right?

He brings his hands up to his mouth in a loose fist, warming them with his breath. "Most of this junk is just that, all right? But Bobby had a few gems stashed around." Dean heads towards the back row, shielded on one side by stacked cars and by a twenty-foot, corrugated metal wall on the other. There's barely room to walk back here, and he nearly clips himself on the side mirror of a pickup as he squeezes past. He doesn't have to look back to know Cas is following, the _crunch-fwup_ of his footsteps dogging Dean's in the snow.

"He's got a really nice '69 GTO, interior is in good condition, but the engine's blown and it's rusted down to the frame. It'd take a few months to get it working order. But this beauty," Dean pulls back the edge of the cover, shaking off the snow along the hood of the old Firebird, revealing the bowed lines over the front wheel and exaggerated outline of the white Firebird painted over the deep royal blue body coat. "Bobby just finished redoing the interior. White leather, man. New clearcoat. Has the original 455 V8. Give 'er a tuneup, she'll outrun Baby. We'll have to teach you drive a stick, but it ain't hard."

It's not like he expects Cas to _ohh_ and _ahh_ — much less appreciate that in '74, Pontiac made less than a thousand of the 7.5L SD455's and they're damn near impossible to find these days — but apparently he's asking too much for Cas to even give the damn thing a glance.

Instead, the angel is dusting snow off the big, square F-150 blocking the car in. He looks up when Dean stops talking, and ignores his glare. "I like this one."

"'Course you do," Dean mutters. He shakes the snow off his hands and stuffs them in his pockets, gently body-checking Cas to the side so he can peer in the single-cab through the window. It's basic, but looks in okay shape. Assuming the truck hasn't rusted in place. "Seriously? This hunk of junk?"

Cas glares at him. "What's wrong with it?" 

"It's...beige."

"So?" 

Dean looks him over, black hair and beige coat acquiring their own layer of snow. Dean's tempted to brush it off, but his hands are as cold as these engines, and he still has to dig around in a icy jar of keys before they go anywhere. "Nothin', man. If that's the one you want." He kicks the tire, but it's run completely flat and the snow remains unmoved. "Right. Fire, coffee, screwdriver, and air compressor. In that order."

Cas takes care of the fire and the coffee (Dean hands him a twenty and he reappears with steaming paper cups thirty seconds later) while Dean digs around for keys. He's surprised when the truck splutters to life without a jump. Peeking under the hood, it looks like Bobby had the good sense to give the thing a battery blanket. The rims aren't anything special so Dean shifts it into neutral and lets Cas push it (one handed, the fucking show-off) out of the back alley and into the covered bay with the lift.

He lets Cas lever the tires off, too ("Careful not to bend the rims, though, Conan."). They're worn down to the thread and one has a tear right through the sidewall, but thankfully there's a couple pairs of All-Terrain's in the back that aren't so old that the rubber's gone brittle. Dean warms his hands over the old can (heartily ablaze with holy fire) while Cas climbs into the bed with a broom. 

"It's just gonna fill back up when we — "

"That's not the point, Dean."

The wind's on his side and starts to pick up, dumping more snow in the bed as Cas sweeps, until Cas decides the broom's too mundane or something; there's a flash of light, and when Dean blinks away the spots in his vision, water is gushing over the tailgate.

"Enjoyin' yourself?"

"A little," Cas says, looking sheepish. He doesn't teleport, just hops down from the back and joins Dean by the fire. "Are you still cold?"

"A little," Dean admits. His body gives an involuntary shudder as a strong gust blows in; looks like they got into town just ahead of an early winter storm. "Still gotta check the oil, she was blowing a lot of white smoke when we started 'er, but that could be the snow."

He inhales too fast when Cas spreads his wings from nowhere, black as deep space and twice as breathtaking. They block the worst of the wind, and give off a gentle, steady heat, like a massive outdoor propane heater. Dean rubs his hands together. It's a good thing Cas picked the truck; there's no way he's staying overnight camped in the backseat, and he's just as likely to put the Impala in a ditch in this weather. At least now Cas'll be able to haul his sorry ass out.

The oil's fine and so is the exhaust, just some melted snow in the tailpipes. The wheel bearings are wearing thin and starting to crack, but they should make it back to Kansas with miles to spare. _Built Ford Tough,_ after all. 

The brakes are in surprisingly good shape, the oil power-steering fluid just needs a top-off, and they'll have to stop at a gas station in town, but they'd have to do that anyway. The Impala's got a thirsty eight-cylinder, too.

Dean rolls out from under the engine and accepts the hand Cas offers, allowing himself be hauled up. "All right, we'll let the engine warm up, and she should be good to go." He closes the hood and dusts off his hands. He looks the truck over and shrugs. Could be worse; Cas could've picked something with more plastic than steel and less than six cylinders. "That bed'll come in handy for hauling bodies, anyway. With a lift and a fresh coat of paint, she'll look pretty good."

"I think it looks fine just like this," Cas mutters, but when Dean looks back, he's smiling.

Another gust of wind makes the edges of his wings flutter. "You'll wanna keep it in four wheel drive for the trip back." Cas tilts his head, quizzical, and Dean sighs. "All right, c'mon."

The single cab is a bench seat that technically seats three, but Dean still feels a little claustrophobic when Cas climbs in beside him. He has to stash his wings, which really sucks for Dean because he'd gotten used to the warmth, and his teeth are already starting to chatter when he tells Cas to start up the engine. The vents blast cold air at him until he wrestles with the knob to turn it off. 

"Okay, that stick?" He has to scoot closer to grab it, but that's fine; even without his wings, Cas gives off a residual heat. "The 2-W-D is fine for when it's dry and clear, but in snow like this, even on the highway, keep it on 4-H, all right? That's four-wheel high. Don't go down to low, that'll just lower the gear ratio and make any turns you take a pain in the ass."

Cas watches his hand as he makes the movements, then tries them himself, brows pinching when he can't find the slots.

"You gotta give it a good tug. But not too hard," Dean adds quickly. He puts his hand over Cas' and guides the movements, and yeah, he maybe lingers a little because Cas' hand is warm, okay, so the fuck what. "Don't want to snap it off, all right?"

"I don't understand what the point is," Cas says, and Dean might ramble a bit about driveshafts and differentials and torque, but Cas quietly indulges him, warming the truck up faster than the engine.

"So it'll default to rear-wheel driver, just like the Impala, unless you shift into four, okay?" The windows have fogged over, and Dean's leaning over Cas to draw out the diagram on the driver's side window. "That engages the transfer case, locking the chain connecting the driveshafts, so they rotate together, splitting up torque between the front and rear diffs, and presto," he looks over at Cas and grins, "now you got power to all four wheels."

Cas isn't looking at Dean's carefully-drawn stick-figure representation of the driveshaft, though. He's looking at Dean, unreadable eyes and that quirky, soft smile he gets whenever he sees a bumblebee. Dean becomes empirically aware that Cas' right arm has made it's way behind him, warm hand resting gently against the small of his back.

"Got it?" Dean demands, now all-too conscious of how he's practically in the angel's lap. But Cas is _warm_ and baby, it's fucking cold outside.

"It's very clever," Cas informs him. His breath ghosts across Dean's cheek and Dean shivers, and it's not from cold. "And in this weather, extremely practical. It may be wise to leave the Impala here and take my truck."

"I ain't leavin' my baby to freeze in this wasteland," Dean grouses, feigning a look out the opaque windshield. Between Cas and the steering wheel, it's pretty crowded — there's plenty of space behind him, but he's gotten comfortable in the warmth. "And we're not sleeping here, either."

"We could find a motel," Cas suggests.

Dean looks back and there's no tell-tale smirk feigning disguise over a lewd remark, just a suggestion. Not a bad one, either. A hot shower and a soft bed are tempting. If memory serves, there's a place on the edge of town that isn't too shabby, with hot water that never seems to run out. "We could," Dean agrees.

Cas just watches him and Dean should move, because if they wanna go anywhere he needs to start up Baby and let her warm up, too. Then again, they can just take the truck and come back for her in the morning. Locked up tight in here, she's less likely to have her rims stolen, and it's already nice and toasty in the truck.

Dean leaps back about a foot and a half when the loud riff of a guitar interrupts the steady gurgle of the truck, and scrambles in his pocket until he pulls out the phone. He answers it without checking who called. "What?" 

" _What?"_ Sam snaps right back. _"What the fuck, Dean! Where the hell are you?_ "

"Sorry," Dean says automatically, then rolls his eyes when Cas tilts his head in question. "Lost track of time. I meant to call."

Proffered apology or not, Sam isn't finished. " _I wake up and you're gone, Cas is gone, the fucking Impala is gone, and Cas isn't answering! What the fuck am I supposed to think?_ "

"That...I went out?" Dean suggests. He covers the receiver, and mouths, _you ignored him?_

"You were enjoying yourself." Cas shrugs. "It wasn't urgent."

" _Is that Cas?_ " Sam demands and Dean sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. " _Ask him what the fuck for me, too._ "

"Sam says hi," Dean translates, then turns back to the phone. "Just took a little field trip, okay? Sorry. We're, uh, well. We were gonna head back, but we kinda got snowed in."

_"Where the hell did you go, Alaska?"_

"Sioux Falls," Dean blurts before he realizes his mistake, and now Sam can rush up here in the middle of a blizzard and be even more of a pain in his ass. "So as far as the weather goes, may as well."

_"The fuck are you doing in Sioux Falls?"_

_"Why the hell are they in Sioux Falls?"_ he hears Jody echo in the background. 

"Jesus, Mary _and_ Joseph," Dean mutters. "Look, we're fine. I needed some shit from Bobby's to fix up the Impala and I forgot to call, Cas is sorry for being a dick, and we'll be home in time for lunch tomorrow, okay?"

 _"Dean,"_ Sam starts.

"I'll call you in the morning."

_"Are you sure you're — "_

"I'll be with him, Sam," Cas says, loud enough that it shuts Sam up right quick. "I'm sorry for not answering your call. Dean was explaining how the differential transfers torque to the front wheels when I shift the stick."

_"Seriously, Dean, what the fuck — "_

"We're fine," Dean agrees. He's hungry, covered in grease, and that hot shower is beckoning. "Tell Jody I said hi, and text me if she wants us to pick anything up while we're here."

Dean hangs up on Sam's grumbling, fairly confident that now he isn't going to try and make it up here on any of the antiques in the bunker's garage. He flips on the defrost, and stretches out on the other end of the cab. "There's an inn on Grange Ave that has a bar that's open until midnight," Dean instructs, checking the time. Holy shit, when did ten o'clock pass them by? 

"You should eat," Cas says, but shifts the truck into gear.

"Headlights," Dean reminds him, then has to lean over to show him where the controls are. "The bar has food. And it's small enough we won't look out of place, and big enough not to be noticed."

"And good water pressure?"

Dean smiles and leans back in his seat. "Yeah, Cas. Like you wouldn't believe."

By the time they pull up to the motel, Dean's stomach is growling. He can't even remember the last time he was looking forward to food; it feels like _years_. There's nowhere to park, which is odd, but Dean's too hungry to care, and has Cas stay with the truck while he runs in to find a room far off away from the redneck wedding party or whoever is taking up the entire front lot. 

"Sorry, booked up," the girl behind the front counter says with an apologetic look.

"Say what?" Dean says.

"There's a Shania Twain concert tomorrow," the girl explains.

Dean's mouth works for a moment. "...so?"

"So...we're full."

"What?"

The girl bites her lip, and Dean feels a little bit like an asshole, but there's a damn blizzard outside and he's got an angel double-parked outside. "My sister works at the Suites downtown," she offers. "Last I heard, they had a couple rooms left."

Downtown. _Suites_. In Sioux fucking Falls, so basically just an overpriced Motel 6 with pillowtop mattresses and separate "smoking" and "non-smoking" rooms — sorry, _suites_ — because it's South fucking Dakota.

"I can give her a call," the girl offers, when Dean says nothing. "Get'cha a discount?"

"Yeah, whatever," Dean says. "Where the hell is downtown?"

+

Downtown is up the street, two blocks to the right, and ten to the left, hang a right at the creek. It looks like the sort of country club rich assholes use to host NRA rallies. Dean's never spent any time in this town aside from Bobby's place in the hills and the diner on the edge of the city, and had no idea they had a golf course, much less what to use an iron for aside from busting someone's car window to steal a radio.

There's plenty of parking and Cas scowls at the idea of someone else driving when Dean explains what a valet is, so they park it themselves and walk. At this point Dean doesn't give a shit that he's got grease on his face or that he's checking in under the name _Paul Abdul_ (Cas isn't picking the aliases ever again) or that, go figure, the girl at the motel thought he was alone so of _course_ it's a single with a King. At least she didn't book him the goddamn Honeymoon suite.

"I thought you were going to eat?" Cas asks, when Dean herds them past the restaurant and into an elevator.

"Room service," Dean says. He's lived his entire life by the go-big-or-go-home philosophy, and fuck it, he's earned it. 

The room's a room, smaller than he expected for the price, but it looks clean and more importantly, _smells_ clean. The bed is massive, taking up most of the space, leaving a small passage at the end between the bed and the dresser, on which is propped a 50" flatscreen. The window curtains are drawn and _monogrammed_ and so is the duvet. He dumps the small go-bag on the floor beside the bed, and calls down for a burger with a side of fries, hell yes on the bacon, and a six pack of whatever's decent.

He starts stripping off the outer layers before remembering he's not alone, and wonders since when the hell that mattered. "Uh," he says, halfway out of his t-shirt. "There's some cash left, give the waiter a tip if they come while I'm," he gestures towards the ensuite bathroom. 

"All right," Cas obligues. He takes a seat on the bed and sinks, straight-backed, into the soft mattress. 

"Right," Dean says, still undecided about the shirt thing, and crab-walks through the bathroom door before he finishes pulling it over his head. His reflection stares back in the mirror over the sink, warm lights masking how pale his skin is, how gaunt his features have gotten. Dean scowls at himself, and tosses the shirt on the floor. It's not like Cas had never seen him in his birthday suit, at his best and his worst, and the guy had practically put him back together after his tour in the pit. It doesn't _matter_.

He watches his own expression pinch, and wonders when the hell he got so bad at lying.

The shower helps; the water pressure is passable (it's got nothing on the bunker, though) and runs persistent and hot, despite Dean taking his time. He developed a crick in the right side of his neck from crawling under the old pickup; he stands with his head titled to the left, letting the spray hit the sore spot until the hot water washes the worst of it away.

He knows he's stalling, but the heat feels _really_ good. The aches and pains don't vanish overnight like they used to when he was twenty. He runs his hand over the spot and pinches, relieving some of the pressure. Then again, he's got an live-in miracle worker, and that just leads Dean to thinking about Cas' hands on his neck afterwards, long fingers digging into the muscle, the soothing spread of grace as it erased the pain.

The all-over shudder nearly throws him off balance and leaves him a little light-headed. Dean closes his eyes and lets his hand drift lower. May as well clean the pipes while he's in here, or it's going to be one hell of a long night.

Except his dick isn't cooperating, which, okay, it's not like that's never happened before, but whatever. He hasn't had a solid night of sleep in weeks, even his fucking junk is exhausted.

The TV is on when Dean comes out, skin still steaming from the shower, wrapped in a soft fluffy robe; if he's paying a buck fifty a night, he's gonna act like it. He can smell the food the moment he opens the door, and is kind of surprised to realize his mouth is watering. Hell, he hasn't been this hungry in _months_. 

Cas is laid out on the bed, watching a MythBusters re-run on the Discovery Channel. "Shower's all yours," Dean tells him, discreetly pulling on some boxers under the robe. He isn't sure what Cas gets out of a shower now that he's powered up, but at least it'll give the guy something to do rather than watch Dean eat.

He gets through the burger and most of the fries, which he takes as a victory. He's just cracked open his second beer when Cas emerges, wearing a matching robe. "That was pleasant," he says. "Not as good as yours, though."

Dean nods his head in assent. His head and limbs feel heavy, and he hasn't had enough to drink for it to be anything else except exhaustion. He hasn't felt the ache of a good day's work — or hunt, for that matter — in a while. "They're about to do the _Speed_ Bus Test," Dean adds.

Cas tilts his head in silent question.

"Keanu Reeves? Sandra Bullock?" Dean actually gapes at him. "All the shit Metatron uploaded into your head, and he didn't watch _Speed?_ "

Demolition Derby keeps them occupied for a while, and Dean's working on his third beer when the TV announces _Deadliest Catch_ is up next and Dean groans. "Bunch'a assholes on a boat who argue about fish," he explains, when Cas raises an eyebrow in question.

Cas turns the volume down, almost muted, just leaving a soft murmur of background noise; Dean doesn't miss that he doesn't use the remote to do it. He supposes it makes sense that, at some point, Cas sat down on the other end of the bed, but Dean didn't really pay it any mind until he tries to get under the covers. Cas stands up, allowing him to yank the duvet back, but doesn't sit back down once Dean slides underneath.

"You don't have to stand there," Dean offers.

"I don't sleep," Cas reminds him.

Cas is giving him a way out, and there was a time Dean would've appreciated it, but now it just annoys him, because there's literally no difference between Cas sitting on the bed now than five seconds ago.

Except, there kind of is, and that's even _more_ annoying.

Dean rolls over, stuffs his head in a pillow and closes his eyes. "If you're just gonna creep on me while I sleep anyway, you may as well be comfortable." 

Cas sounds a little annoyed now, too. "If you don't want me here, I can leave."

Dean's eyes snap open. "I didn't mean — "

"I'd come back," Cas answers quickly. "In the morning. I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

Dean sighs and pushes up, rolling onto his back. "Do you _want_ to go?"

Cas squints at him. "We already had this conversation."

"Then shut up and get into bed."

Dean becomes intimately aware of how loosely Cas' robe is tied around his waist when sits back down on the bed, stark terrycloth creating a bright contrast across a tanned thigh. He looks nervous, and not the wide-eyed sort he was that time at the brothel, but rather eyeing Dean like he's a dog that might decide to bite. "Are you sure?"

It's a simple question, but Dean feels the weight of it land on his chest, loaded and suffocating. "No," he admits, but doesn't really know how to articulate whatever the hell is going on in his head. He feels a little dizzy, like he drank just enough to get tipsy and stood up too quickly.

It looks like Cas is going to get up again, and Dean's so terrified he's going to leave that he reacts without thinking it through, fingers closing tightly over Cas' wrist. "You know that's not," he starts, lets go of Cas and tries again, if only to prove he's not a fourteen-year-old fucking _girl_. "You're the one who can read minds. I want you to stay, I just," he runs a hand through his hair. "I don't really know what's going on, here."

Cas fixes him with a look, and maybe Dean doesn't know how to put it into words but he can will it across that Vulcan mind-meld shit well enough for Cas to understand; that for weeks he's felt like Cas is holding on too tight and simultaneously keeping Dean at arm's length, afraid to get too close, like Dean'll suddenly change his mind after all these goddamn years.

The mattress dips as Cas slides his other leg up, but he doesn't come any closer. He lowers his eyes into his lap, staring at his hands. Dean doesn't give in, waits it out until Cas sighs and looks up, meeting his eyes. "I can't, actually. Read your mind," Cas clarifies.

Dean's about to call bullshit when Cas continues, "I can infer some things. Catch a glimpse. It's easier if you're not being purposefully deceitful. But sometimes I can't make sense of any of it. There's a lot going on in there," and Cas' tone isn't accusatory, but Dean flushes anyway. "Sometimes what you think is right up front and _shouting_ , but most of the time it's tangled deep up under everything else and a lot harder to decipher." Cas shrugs. "It's hard to explain without going into a series of nonlinear differential equations."

"If you really wanna know what I'm thinking," Dean says, "you could just _ask_."

Cas takes a long, deep breath, lets it out slow. "I'm worried," he admits, casting a sheepish glance at Dean, "that I won't like the answer."

Dean sits up a little straighter, scooting back until he's resting against the headboard. "You gonna spit it out, or make me guess?"

For a second Dean thinks he's going to have to, but then Cas blurts out, "I don't understand why you're not _angry_."

"Angry about what?" The look Cas gives him makes Dean glare, like Cas is making a lick of goddamn sense, here. 

Cas looks like he might want to hit Dean, which is kind of funny since he thinks Dean's the one that should be angry. "Because," Cas says, voice low but rising with every word, "you never gave me permission!"

Dean blinks, and it takes a second for him to realize what Cas is even talking about, and then.... _oh_. Yeah. That.

"You said you'd never forgive me for that. And you shouldn't," he adds quickly, when Dean opens his mouth. "Even if I wanted to leave, I have nowhere to go. _Lucifer_ would be more welcome in Heaven than me."

Dean scrubs a hand at his mouth. "Jesus Christ, Cas. Is that what you've been so," Dean waves his hand up and down to indicate Cas' rigid posture, the state-sized gap between them on the bed. Cas looks at his hands and Dean rolls his eyes. "Well, then you're an idiot."

Cas does look at him then, and Dean wonders just how far those eyes can see.

"I don't give a fuck what they think," Dean tells him. "Any of them; Gabriel, God, the whole heavenly host. Maybe you do, and then you gotta deal with that, but right here? Yeah, you're being an idiot," he repeats, just in case Cas didn't get it the first time. "You really need me spell it out?" 

Cas doesn't say anything, but hasn't bolted yet. Dean sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. Well, fuck it. _Go big or go home_ , right?

Dean sits up and shifts closer, not quite touching, and forces himself to meet Cas' eyes. Cas is still watching him, blue eyes curious but calm. 

"You got nothin' to be sorry for," Dean says. "You've always had permission."

Cas shudders and looks away, dark lashes casting faint shadows over his cheeks. "That's... kind of you to say, Dean, but that doesn't — "

"It's _all_ that counts," Dean interrupts. "I don't have to play by Heaven's rules and, frankly, neither do you. Not anymore, not unless you want to. Yeah, you possessed me, and yeah, technically, I didn't say the magic word, so if you want to beat yourself up for that, I can't stop you. But you shouldn't," he adds, when Cas closes his eyes. "You made the right call, Cas. If I had been in your shoes, if it had been you or Sammy, I would've done the same thing. Hell, I _have_." 

Cas doesn't look completely convinced, but he no longer looks like he's about to take off to no-man's land, either. Dean scoots a little closer, and breathes out when Cas doesn't pull away. It's a minor miracle he's stuck around this long, and those are the only kind Dean cares about. He feels like kind of an asshole, too, for not picking up on it sooner.

"So if that's the only objection, then I'm gonna try something. If you don't want it, just," Dean sucks down a breath so quickly it hurts, lodging a painful lump in his throat. "Just, say so, okay?"

Cas looks him over, eyes dark but curious, and nods. "Okay."

At first, when Dean leans over, he pauses, framing Cas' bottom lip between his own, feeling the heat of Cas' breath against his mouth. Cas doesn't move, just waits until Dean presses a little further and tilts his head, finds the right angle where their mouths slot together. Dean inhales deeply through his nose and pushes up off the mattress for leverage until Cas pushes back, opening his mouth.

It's not like they haven't ever done this before. Dean isn't so buried in denial to pretend the first time — or the second — doesn't count. And it's exactly what he remembers, how Cas opens up slowly, soft lips and timidly curious tongue, blindingly hot and frustratingly gentle.

Well, enough of _that_.

Dean slides his hand around the back of Cas' neck and pulls him in, fingers twisting in the hair at the back of his neck. Cas' stubble bites into cheek and his chin, and when Cas finally, _finally_ follows Dean's tongue back into his mouth, Dean sits up and throws a leg over him, seizing his face in both hands.

Holy _shit_ , Dean can do this all night.

Cas hums a little when Dean's hands drop lower, trailing the lines of his neck to his shoulders, fingers crawling across the hot skin beneath the robe, easing it gently off Cas' shoulders. He sort of forgot Cas didn't bother to put on anything underneath, but Dean's fine with that, one less layer to worry about. His hands slide across the curve of Cas' arms and his shoulders, and he slides a palm in the dip between them, the valley between the wings just out of sight. Cas shivers under the touch and makes a noise, something between a gasp and a sigh and Dean's all about that, wants to hear more, greedily wants to swallow them down so no one else can hear them. 

A large hand snakes its way around Dean's thigh and pulls him forward until he's seated in Cas' lap, and any awkward questions Dean might've had about so-called junkless angels gets abruptly put to rest. "Shit," he hisses, and Cas bites at his lip. " _Shit_."

"What," Cas says against his mouth.

"Shut up," Dean instructs, and kisses him again.

Cas doesn't seem to know what else to do with his hands so Dean shows him, shrugging out of the robe and placing Cas' hands on his chest, and that's all the encouragement Cas needs. His hands are _huge_ and Dean wants them everywhere all at once, wants them to curl into him like the grace guiding them, wants that warmth to surge around him until he suffocates on it.

He wishes he could see past it, touch the angel beneath the skin, explore those hidden pieces like he's exploring the body its borrowing. He wishes he could feel that warmth again, the surefire rush of heat down his throat and through him, burning and bright and overpowering. He makes do with the flesh, tugging the robe off and away, shedding his own until there's nothing between them except their skin. Cas' hands tighten on his hips and _Jesus_ , he's strong, pulling Dean's hips down until their isn't any space left between them. Dean has no idea when that became a huge fucking turn-on but whatever works, he's not about to try and dissect it while hands knead at his ass and teeth cut their way across his collarbone. 

Dean's having a pretty good night, all in all, right up until Cas' hands drift lower, and Dean realizes that Cas is the only one standing to attention. 

There's an awkward moment when Dean tries to ignore it, but Cas catches his hands, lets the kiss grow lazy until Dean breaks away entirely. He leans forward and braces his forehead against the junction of Cas' neck and shoulder, closing his eyes and just breathing him in, swallowing down the shame and frustration lodged tight in his throat.

Gentle fingers card through his hair and down his sides, soothing, like this is fucking normal or something, like Dean hasn't survived Hell and worse and rolled right back into the hay like it's nothing. "It's okay," Cas says. "We don't have to."

Dean rolls off his lap and props his back against the headboard, crossing his arms over his knees and letting his forehead rest there. He's still naked and a little sticky and he feels feverish, skin too hot and sensitive to the crisp sheets as Cas rustles up beside him.

Cas doesn't say anything else, just slots himself along Dean's body, torso laid out against Dean's bare thigh, fingers trailing lightly in the soft hair there. Dean's so fucking grateful for the silence that he sinks down as Cas curls an arm around him and reels him in, and drops a light kiss against his fringe. Dean shuts his eyes, and sleeps.

+

Dean's sitting on the dock by the lake. The sun is high in the sky, bright enough to make him squint. There's a gentle breeze causing the water to ripple, reeds waving gently at the bank beside him. It carries the long, mourning call of a loon stretch across the water.

Dean leans back and closes his eyes, letting the sun soak into his skin. He doesn't notice it start to get dark, only that it's suddenly too cold, breath misting in front of his face when he opens his eyes. The lake is frozen, as vast as the horizon, and deep within the dark ice, something laughs. Dean can't get enough air and the laughter just gets louder, jeering, working deep into his chest and _squeezing_. The touch is so cold it burns and Dean screams but can't hear it, sound getting trapped in the cold ice with everything else.

A warmth wraps around him and Dean sinks into it, shivering, until it burns the chill away. The air comes rushing back into his lungs and Dean closes his eyes, clings to the engulfing heat, and and waits until the laughter echoes off and dies away.

Dean isn't sure if he's awake or still asleep; it's too dark to see, but he can feel the soft bed beneath him, feel the warmth of a body beside him. He hears a flutter overhead, feels the silky drag of feathers across his skin. Dean closes his eyes and curls in, lets the wings wrap around him like a shield to hold back the monsters in his head.

The next time he opens his eyes, the sunlight is persistent through the curtains and casts the room in a hazy white light. Everything is soft and warm and Dean doesn't want to move, doesn't even feel the urge to bolt when he realizes the pillow beneath his head is made up of an expanse of flawless skin, sparse dark hairs trailing their way from the navel and lower, silver-lined by the morning sun.

He closes his eyes again and just lets the moment linger, scratchy cheek pressed against the soft skin between Cas' ribs and his hips. Cas might not need to breathe but has spent enough time playing human that his diaphragm moves anyway, gently rising and falling under the weight. There's an arm draped around Dean's back, fingers lightly tracing the scar on his left shoulder. 

Cas must know he's awake because his fingers shift, going from tracing idle patterns to sliding firm and sure over his back and neck, nails occasionally digging in. Comforted by the mirage-like moments between asleep and awake, Dean groans in appreciation and shifts, burying a little deeper under the sheets. He's a little annoyed to realize his dick, while uncooperative last night when he needed it, seems to have perked up overnight.

Fingers pinch the back of his neck, working their way down along his spine, and Dean wants to stay here and never leave, live cocooned in this warm, safe place between the soft bed and Cas' softer skin, lulled to complacency by deft fingertips working down his back and the rhythmic beat of Cas' heart.

His bladder has other ideas, but Dean persists as long as he can, well beyond the point of mild discomfort. It's not until Cas stops his one-handed massage and scrapes his nails back up Dean's spine that Dean opens his eyes, shivering, dick twitching against the mattress. Having spent most of his life sleeping alone, he's aware he's a bit of a blanket hog, and coupled with regular nightmares, often wakes up twisted up in a knot of sheets. Cas is lying bare beside him, and it's not like Dean hadn't seen all of him last night, but being literally face to hip with it in the stark light of day is a whole different ball game.

But then Cas' hand moves back into his hair, fingers kneading gently, and Dean completely forgets to be embarrassed. He presses a slow, wet kiss to the jut of Cas' hipbone and grinds down, ignoring the sharp, insistent reminder in his groin that he still has to take a piss.

Cas' stomach hitches, outlining the curve of his ribs. Dean runs a hand up a bare thigh and grins at the shiver that produces. _Fuck_ , he really needs to get up, but Cas is laid out like temptation, miles of bare skin hot to the touch, and for the first time in weeks, Dean's body seems up and ready to do something about it.

Fingers smooth through his hair, brushing across his temples, down his cheek and brush the corner of his bottom lip. "I'll be here when you get back," Cas says. Dean hears it through his skin, deep voice rumbling tectonic plates shifting beneath the surface.

"Mmph," is all Dean can be bothered with, because Cas knows as well as he does as soon as he moves, the spell will break. He'll have to look Cas in the eye and confront the whatever the hell this is, how it went from a curious fondness to that fleeting stomach-dropping sensation to something tangible and terrifying. And what kind of asshole does that make him, ready to take everything Cas is offering, and not even have a goddamn conversation about it?

Dean scowls as the familiar cold trickle of guilt works its way into his chest; he didn't have to worry about this shit when he was a demon. But the demon would've taken all Cas had offered last night and more. It wouldn't have hung around for this part, wouldn't have known what to do with it. 

The sneaky guilt spiral starts to pick up speed, spinning in vicious circles, curling up tight in Dean's guts like a snake. There's a sharp pain along his scalp as Cas tightens his fingers and tugs. "Stop that." 

Dean looks up to glare at him, but Cas cards his fingers through Dean's hair and a warmth blooms at the back of his neck and spreads out, trickling down his spine and leaving his skin tingling. "Y'know, usin' your mojo like that," Dean grumbles against his navel, "that's cheating."

Nails scrape up his back with just enough bite to make Dean shiver. "I think I prefer 'creative problem solving'."

The intimate touch lands a little too close to wound Dean's still nursing in his ego so he rolls up with a groan, nearly tripping over the blankets twisted around his legs. His sees his discarded robe on the floor and scoops it up as he stumbles his way into the bathroom. He's already flushing the toilet before he realizes he hadn't even closed the door. Whatever. If Cas is actually gonna stick around, he's gonna have to get used to it.

He lets the water in the sink run until it's warm before washing his hands. He splashes some on his face, too, dragging his palms heavily down his face. He braces his hands against the sink and stares at his reflection, too-pale and thin, a reflection of himself ten years ago, minus the telltale crows feet. His scars are mostly the same, no traces left from the wounds he gathered over the summer save for one. He fingers the space between his ribs on his left side, tracing the spot where Krissy had plunged the demon blade into his heart. No amount of angelic healing would remove that. 

Dean wonders where she is, now. What she's up to. A wistful part of him wants to think she wised up and moved on, quit the life and aimed for something close to normal. The rational part of his brain knows that's a dream, that she's probably out hunting already, too caught up in the web of self-destructive crap that comes with the job. 

He wanders back into the bedroom without remembering to dress, and finds Cas sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing one of the spare pair of jeans from his go-bag and an old t-shirt with a logo too faded to read. He's tugging on his boots and looks up when Dean moves past him to the other side of the bed, digging around in the go-bag by the window for a pair for himself. 

Dean's pulling out the jeans when he notices Cas still watching him, completely unabashed. Heat flames up his neck and cheeks despite his best efforts to quash it. "Enjoyin' the view?"

"Yes," Cas says, matter-of-fact. "Take your time."

+

The ride back to Bobby's place isn't as awkward as Dean thinks it'll be. He expected a lot of awkward questions and _what does this mean?_ 's or maybe even a _what's wrong with you dick?_ but Cas seems content, letting Dean tune the radio to the local rock station and stretching out across the cab with his feet up on the windowsill. 

Dean warms up the Impala before he grabs what he needs, starting with the airbrush; the bunker doesn't really have the set up for a paint job, but it's got the ventilation and would save him another trip up here when he got the bodywork done. He leaves the body puller because he doesn't have the practice it takes to use it and grabs a slide hammer instead, along with a few gallons of Bondo and the box full of fresh spreaders Bobby kept in the back. He grabs the air filer, too, along with the sander, because it's not like Bobby needs them anymore and it'll save him twelve hours and a backache from doing it by hand. 

"That should do it." Dean grunts as he flips the tailgate closed and rubs his hands together, trying to work back the blood flow. On second thought, he sidles up to Cas and holds out his hands — Cas takes them, looking perplexed, and holy _shit_ , this is like having one of those portable ceramic heaters on demand. "That is really unfair."

"I'm mostly made of low-mass, high-energy subatomic particles," Castiel says, and smiles. "You seem to enjoy the thermal heat I produce in this vessel."

"That's because it's colder than Lucifer's balls out here," Dean mutters, and pulls his hands away. "You ready to go?"

"No." 

Dean's halfway through turning around and pauses, pivoting right back to demand why the hell not, Sam's going to blow up his phone any minute because morning's quickly turning into afternoon, and the wind's picking up again for round two, and anyway, why the hell would Cas want to hang around here any longer than they have to — 

It makes sense when Cas leans forward and kisses him, but Dean's still shocked into stillness. His lips give off the same heat as the rest of him, an oasis of warmth in winter, and Dean knows all too well that the inside of that mouth is hotter still. When Cas pulls back Dean follows for an instant before snapping back, shivering all over.

"Okay," Cas says, and licks his lips, "now I'm ready."

"Okay?" Dean parrots, because, yeah, that just happened.

"I'm sorry," Cas says. "I should have asked." 

"I," Dean attempts. "What? Uh, no," he adds, quickly, because now Cas looks like a dog that just pissed on the carpet. "It's fine, Cas. I was just, uh," he shifts his weight, knocks some of the snow off his boot, "wasn't expecting it."

Cas shoves his hands in the pockets of his coat. "Consent is important."

"Well, yeah, okay," Dean admits. _Good job on bringing that up again, champ._ There's probably more there they need to talk about, but not _right now_ while they're freezing their nuts off. Then again, Cas' nuts are probably just as toasty as the rest of him, and now Dean's thinking about Cas' junk and wants to smack himself in the face. "But... seriously, you don't have to worry about it."

"Should I ask in the future?"

"No. I mean, you can?" Dean lets out a short breath in a bloom of white mist. "Just, uh, assume you have it, okay? Consent," he clarifies, when Cas tilts his head in question. "Are we done talking about this now? Great. Just, um, follow me back, and don't forget your headlights."

"It's daytime," Cas argues.

"Cas," Dean snaps, but when he looks back, Cas is already in the truck and the headlights flick on. "Asshole," Dean adds, just because he knows Cas can still hear him.

He feels a light tickle at the back of his mind and can't help the smile in return.

The smile fades a little as he climbs into the Impala and feels the phone in his pocket vibrate. "Keep your goddamn shirt on, Sam," he answers. "We're just heading out."

" _About fucking time_."

Dean pulls the phone black to glance at the time and winces. "Sorry. Got a late start."

" _Uh-huh_ ," Sam grunts on the other end of the line. " _Well, good. You scared the shit out of me, man."_

Dean rolls his eyes as he shifts the car into drive before wedging the phone between his ear and his shoulder. "Jody need us to get anything?"

" _Nah, she's good. She needs to get back up there soon, anyway. Apparently her deputy sheriff is a few days away from burning the station down without her."_

"All right," Dean says, and tries to keep his voice even. He'll miss having Jody around — both as a distraction for Sam and her company — but it's not like they can expect to drop her life and move in. 

There's a long enough pause that Dean thinks Sam already hung up, but then he says, " _So, uh_. _How're you doing, anyway?"_

Dean scowls at his reflection in the rearview. "I'm fine, Sam. No, really," he adds, when he hears Sam's intake of breath on the other side to argue. "I mean it, okay? Passed out with a full stomach and logged more than six hours, how's that for a record?"

_"And the mark?"_

Dean's hands tighten on the wheel. "Nothing."

_"Nothing as in..."_

"Nothing as in _nothing_ , man, Jesus. No homicidal urges, but between you and Cas' fucking handholding, I ain't promising anything." It's not a lie; Dean hadn't even thought about it until Sam brought it up. He doesn't really want to scratch at that phantom itch. "We'll be back in a couple hours."

" _Okay_."

Dean hangs up before Sam can add any afterthoughts, and tosses the phone onto the seat beside him. He reaches for the radio before he remembers he still hasn't fixed that yet, and watches the highway stretch out before them towards the horizon. Even with dad gone and Sam off wherever, between the Impala and the rock 'n roll, Dean's never felt so damn lonely in the car.

When he glances up, he catches the headlights of the truck in his rearview, bobbling along the road, and feels a little better.

+

Despite whatever promises he made over the phone, Dean doesn't pull in until after ten. Sam hears the garage doors open and closes his laptop, prepared to give his brother the telling-off of his life.

A brown-and-beige truck pulls into the garage just ahead of the Impala, and the car roars in after it, barely squealing to a halt before ramming into the truck's back bumper.

Cas lets himself out of the truck looking proud of himself. Dean slams the door to the car like he's pissed off, but he's smiling. "It doesn't count if you _cheat_."

"It's not cheating," Cas says. "Technically, you have the more powerful engine. Just because your car lacks the ability to go into four-wheel-drive — "

"Hi," Sam says loudly, the steam he built up quickly fading away in wake of whatever the hell is going on _there_. "You're late."

"I got hungry, so sue me," Dean says. 

"And spun out," Cas adds, still grinning. It's a weird look on him. "I had to tow him out of a ditch."

That explains the red-tipped noses and cheeks, and why Dean's jeans are wet up to his knees. "Car okay?"

"Yeah, nothin' she can't survive," Dean says, patting the hood as he works his way around towards Sam. He jerks his head at the truck. "I offered him Bobby's old Firebird, but _this_ is what he wanted."

Bobby was proud of that car, but Sam has to admit the truck is more practical, and says so.

"Nerds of a fuckin' feather, I swear," Dean mutters. "All right, well. I'm fine, Cas is fine, and the car is fine, so you can calm down, okay? I thought you _wanted_ me to go outside?"

"I do, but," Sam stops himself and sighs. "You're right. I just found you gone and panicked. You didn't even leave a note."

"Yeah, 'bout that," Dean glances at Castiel, and there's that damn _smile_ again. If Sam didn't know any better, he'd think his brother was stoned. "Spur of the moment thing. Sorry."

"Whatever. Just, call me next time. Jody already hit the sack," Sam tells them, ready for a change of subject. "But she left some hot chocolate. "

"That woman is a _saint_ ," Dean says, sprinting past them.

"Isn't chocolate traditionally eaten as a solid?" Castiel keeps pace with Sam, letting Dean get a head start on the kitchen. "If you heat it, won't it melt?"

"That's the whole point!" Dean shouts from the kitchen.

Cas sips his hot chocolate in quiet contemplation. Dean dumps so much of the bag into his mug, he's basically drinking a liquid marshmallow. 

"That's disgusting," Sam says for the third time. 

"Nobody asked for your opinion," Dean chimes back, licking away his marshmallow-mustache. He nudges Cas with an elbow. "You sure you don't want any?"

Cas buries his nose deep in his cup and takes a gulp, swallowing it down before answering. "I do not require any sugar dumplings, but thank you."

Dean mouths _sugar dumplings?_ at Sam and Sam just laughs. "Well, I guess we finally found something you like."

"I don't understand the difference between eating it warm or cold, but I do enjoy the taste," Cas admits, and takes another sip. He eyes the pot on the stove, then Sam. "Are you having any more?"

Sam shrugs. "Knock yourself out."

Cas helps himself to the rest while Dean fills up on mini-marshmallows. They aren't acting any differently than the night before or the weeks before that, but there's something different, there, in the space between them, that Sam can't quite put his finger on.

Maybe it's the _lack_ of space.

Dean yawns hugely over his empty mug before standing up. "Well, it's been a helluva long day, and those fancy hotel beds ain't got nothin' on my memory foam." Dean pauses at the threshold, hand cupping the doorframe. "Hey," he calls, until Cas looks up. "You comin'?"

"In a minute," Cas answers.

Dean glances from Cas to Sam and shrugs, carrying off down the hall. Sam stares after him, stumped by Dean's candor.

Cas takes another sip of his hot chocolate.

Sam raises his eyebrows. "Somethin' you wanna talk about?"

"Not particularly," Cas says, but he doesn't seem perturbed by the change of pace. Content, even, but Sam honestly can't read him like Dean does. "But I do want to apologize for ignoring your prayers earlier."

"Uh, thanks." Sam's already forgotten it. He's still a little off-balance from Dean's departure. "I mean, I guess I get it. He seems... he's in a good mood." Sam fixes the angel with a look over the edge of his mug. "I assume you have something to do with that."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Castiel says matter-of-factly, but the edge of his mouth betrays a smile. 

+


	14. Chapter 14

**all thanks to sin**

* * *

  


xiii.

  


Dating an angel is fucking weird.

The word _dating_ has actually never come up, and Dean isn't even sure if it applies, but it's better than any of the others that rattle around in Dean's head late at night. Sometimes Cas listens in by accident ("You think _very loudly_ ," he insists) and asks about them later, but he seems about as happy as Dean to leave it without any concrete definition.

Sam actually worked up the courage to ask outright a couple of weeks ago, and when Dean bit back _it's complicated_ , Sam laughed his ass off.

It's weird mostly because of the human/angel divide, like that Dean has to eat and Cas doesn't, but sometimes he indulges if Dean insists and otherwise is content to watch. Cas doesn't need to shower, either, but he follows Dean in because he likes the feeling of the hot water and, as he pointed out in no uncertain terms, enjoys watching Dean in there, too. 

Cas doesn't follow him _everywhere_ , though. Dean still sets some boundaries when it comes to using the bathroom or taking a drive to get some fresh air or bedding down with a pair a headphones so he can just _not think_ for an hour or two. But the angel's always nearby, a split-second prayer away, and sometimes keeps him company without actually being there in the flesh, just the hint of a presence outside his line of sight. Dean's surprised how quickly he gets used to it, whether it's sharing the space in his head or on the couch or in his bed. 

It's _weird_ because when Dean joins Sam on a case these days, they get separate rooms.

"This is weird, right?"

"What, you and Cas?" Sam yawns around his mouthful of oatmeal. "You guys were always weird, Dean."

Another thing that's weird is that Cas doesn't sleep, but he always stays the night. Dean has had a few long conversations with him about not being a prisoner, that he can come and go as he likes, that if he needs a few days off to go and do whatever that Dean's not going to lose his shit. He's not _that guy_. Cas has made it pretty obvious he's not going to up and leave without explanation, and Dean's worried that if he doesn't get some fresh air, he's going to get sick of Dean real quick. 

And then there's fact that they're not actually having sex.

Since the failed attempt in Sioux Falls, Dean hasn't tried again and Cas hasn't brought it up. That isn't to say they're not, uh, enjoying each other's company. Cas really seems to like making out, and hands always manage to wander, but the angel lets Dean set whatever boundaries he's comfortable with and never pushes. 

Sometimes, Dean really wishes he _would_.

When this sort of thing happened with Lisa, she at least had the decency to be frustrated by it. But Lisa was human, with human wants and desires and a knack for interpreting whatever the hell was going on in Dean's head at the time. Just because Cas can kinda-sorta read his mind or mood or whatever doesn't mean he really understands it, knows how to see past the bullshit and cut to the chase, to push a little harder when Dean pulls away. 

Maybe that night in South Dakota was just him trying to appease a human partner. Maybe Dean's doomed to spending his life stuck on second base. 

And if that's how it is, then Dean's okay with that. Really. Sure, it's weird, but he'd rather have Cas than sex.

Dean ignores the insistent ache between his legs and buries his face in a pillow.

It takes a few minutes for him to realize the other side of the bed is empty. That's only happened a handful of times since Cas started sharing it, and it's unusual enough to jerk Dean fully awake. The sweats and t-shirt Cas usually borrows for bed are folded neatly on the desk, so he probably hasn't gone far. The clock beside it tells him it's a quarter to four in the morning.

Dean rubs the sleep from his eyes and rolls to his feet, and pads down the quiet hallway, cold stone biting at the soles of his feet.

The door to the showers is slightly ajar. The gentle spray of the taps is more obvious as he eases it open, closing it carefully behind him. The lights in the showers themselves aren't on, just the bulbs in the adjacent locker room, casting a low orange glow through the mist of water. Every single showerhead is running, filling the room with enough steam to make it a sauna. 

Cas stands facing the opposite wall, a completely naked centerpiece to enormous black wings.

Most of the angels they encounter these days still show some evidence from the fall, burnt and molting feathers still trying to heal, but Cas' are whole again, huge and perfect and breathtaking. They seem too delicate to be weapons and yet too dangerous to have out like this, simultaneously soft and sharp. The water falls on them like warm rain, rivulets running down long black feathers, long, delicate-looking primaries fanning out as they stretch, spraying water against the walls. 

Cas doesn't bring them out much, anymore; most of the bunker is too small to accommodate them and Cas almost seems shy about them, sometimes, like he's worried they're a reminder of what he is, that the body he's adopted is just on loan, that Dean's somehow forgotten he's sharing a bed with an angel of the Lord.

And _damn_ , that body. It doesn't look like much under a trenchcoat and even if Dean's been sleeping side-by-side with it for weeks now, covered in loose t-shirts and sweatpants, it's easy to forget that Jimmy's physique puts his to goddamn shame. 

The angel is so absorbed by the warm water he doesn't notice he has company until Dean steps into the spray, fully clothed, and stops just short of touching him. There's a hitch in one wing, not-quite-startled, and Cas glances over his shoulder, black hair slick against his skull under the water. 

"Hey," Dean says, and runs a palm up the curve of his spine, letting it rest between the junction of wings. "Wondered where you got off to."

He doesn't worry if Cas can hear him over the water; he channels the intent over the connection between their skin, the hand along Cas' back, his other resting on a slick, bare hip. 

Cas looks away and the wings curl in, a precursor to Cas stashing them back to wherever he hides them, but Dean reaches out to touch, stilling the movement. The feathers feel like warm satin under his fingers, smooth and soft and delicate. "You don't gotta," he starts, clears his throat, and tries again. "You don't have to hide them."

"I wasn't — " The wings shiver, water casting off in a mist. It's hard to see his expression in the dim light, especially with only half his profile, but something in his tone betrays the lie. "I like the way the water feels." 

"Yeah?" The sweats are clinging warm and heavy to Dean's legs as he slides his hands a little further, one trailing the sharp jut of Cas' hip bone and the other across black feathers. Cas closes his eyes and a shudder rolls through him, down the length of his body and out across his wings. Dean lets his hand sink a little lower, following the valley where Cas' pelvis meets his thigh, and nuzzles the junction of where Cas' ear joins his neck. "And this?"

Cas leans back against him and Dean curses himself for not bothering to undress so he can feel that slick skin against his chest, the tight way Cas' muscles shift under his skin when he moves, the soft glide of feathers against his chest. Dean catches an earlobe with his teeth and bites down while his fingers curl around the heat between Cas' legs, gently coaxing, asking for permission. 

Cas tips his head back to give Dean access, wings expanding between them. "Yes."

Dean's always maintained that shower sex is complicated and this isn't an exception. But for the first time in _months_ his dick seems on board with following through and Cas is naked and wet and willing, so Dean's decides it's worth the risk.

He stays still while Dean strokes him and it doesn't take much before his dick starts to fill in Dean's hand, hot wet velvet in his grip. Dean mouths his way down Cas' neck to his shoulder, tuned in to every sharp intake of breath, every shiver that rolls through him. Dean's keeping his movements loose and lazy on purpose, just letting it build up slow, and runs another fingers down the length of one wing, grinning when it twitches. 

"You should keep these out more often," Dean decides, and gets a little distracted tracing feathers, running his fingers through them, mapping out the patterns and where they overlap. He's so distracted by them he doesn't notice Cas' hand has snaked behind him until there's a hand on his hip, gripping tight, and Cas pulls him forward until Dean's dick slots between his cheeks. 

Dean's pretty sure he can feel his own pupils dilate and Dean presses forward, biting down hard on Cas' shoulder. It draws a deep noise of satisfaction out of Cas and Dean files that away for later, because Cas is grinding against him so hard he can barely concentrate on keeping his hand moving. 

"Dean." It comes out more of gasp than his name, and Dean squeezes a little harder, stroking him from base to tip. The wings curl in, shuddering despite the hot water. "Dean, I'm — "

Dean loosens his grip immediately and Cas mutters what Dean's pretty sure is a curse. Dean grins and spins him around, catching the vulgarity with his mouth. They kiss for a long time, though Cas' hands start to wander a little, cashing in all the little hints he's been picking up from heavy-petting sessions, thumbs brushing across his nipples and across the tent Dean's pitching.

When Dean starts to sink down to his knees, chasing the water down Cas' chest, the angel grips hard at his shoulders. "Dean, what — "

"Shhh," Dean mumbles against his skin, cutting his teeth against the sharp jut of Cas' hip. It's hard to look up with the showers running, but he tries anyway. Cas raises his wings and circles them around his head like a halo, feathers acting like a giant umbrella against the water. Dean can't really see his expression in the shadow of his wings, but knows Cas can see him just fine. "Unless you want me to stop, I really need you to shut up."

Fingers curl though his hair as he moves forward, following the stroke of his hand, tongue and lips lazy against the heat of Cas' skin. They grip a little tighter when Dean takes Cas in his mouth. 

Not counting his demonic detour to Miami, it's been years since Dean's indulged in this and he's a little out of practice. Cas is bigger than he's used to and _Jesus_ , Dean's looking forward to trying him on in all sorts of ways, but one thing at a time. 

Dean uses the ragged shudder of Cas' breaths to gauge how he's doing; once Cas figured out Dean found it a little weird sharing a bed with what amounted to a warm corpse he let his vessel breathe naturally, turned on whatever setting in the brain that made his diaphragm expand and contract. Dean's grateful for it, loves the way his stomach flexes and jerks whenever Dean takes him deep, can't get enough of the soft, needy little noises that Cas is making above him. 

And then Cas starts to shift his hips and Dean stills, lets Cas use his mouth, but Cas stills when Dean gags a little. Dean grips his hips harder and pulls him right back in. The tiled floor is killing his knees and Cas' nails are dragging sharp trails along his shoulders and twisting his hair too hard and Dean can't get enough of it.

"Dean," Cas murmurs somewhere above him and it breaks through the fog just enough that Dean pulls back and opens his eyes. A gentle hand cups his jaw, thumb swiping across his bottom lip, easing his mouth back open as he leans back in, working a sloppy kiss along the head. The lights in the locker room flicker, burning out in their sockets with sharp _pops_ , bathing them both in darkness.

The hand in his hair tightens and Dean groans, long and low, and works his hand along Cas' shaft until his dick pulses in Dean's hand as he tips over the edge, eyes flashing blue just before they close, and floods Dean's mouth with sharp, salty heat. 

Dean swallows on instinct, trying to catch his breath, and Cas pulls him up too quickly, leaving him light headed. He nearly loses his balance as Cas starts pulling at his clothes, dropping the soaking t-shirt on the ground with a wet _squelch_ , and Dean nearly trips out of his pants as Cas pushes him backwards, trapped tight inside a tornado of black feathers.

He's bone-dry when they land in his room and Cas doesn't give him time to get oriented, just shoves him down on the bed and crawls over him, mouth locked tight against Dean's. His wings are gone and that's probably for the best, here, too small and cramped in the room, but Dean misses the silky slide of them against his skin.

The world tilts a little when Cas wraps a hand around him, grip soft and white-hot. Dean thrusts into it, cursing when Cas crooks a knee over his thigh and holds him down. "Let me."

Dean drops his head against the pillow and closes his eyes, nodding. "Top drawer," he pants.

If Cas recognizes the bottle of lube he doesn't mention it, but when his hand closes around Dean this time his grip is slick and _perfect_ , long fingers curling around Dean until his eyes roll back, groaning when Cas still won't let him move his hips. Cas' mouth works its way down his chest to a nipple and experiments there until he figures out just the right amount of teeth to make Dean squirm and curse. 

Cas' grip is too loose to do anything but torture and Dean's about five seconds from begging when Cas trails his mouth back up, catching his mouth again. Dean pulls him down, hand tangling in his hair until Cas catches that, too, and holds it down above his head. Dean's other hand is trapped between Cas and the bed so Dean's basically screwed, and totally okay with it.

"You're beautiful like this," Cas tells him.

" _Christ_ ," Dean says, burying his face in Cas' neck.

It's dark between Cas' skin and the sheets and Dean buries himself in it, lets it dial his focus to the hand working him, slick-grip just tight enough to make his hips buck. Dean's never been so lost in sensation before, his entire world narrowing down to the point of focus, the junction of their hips as Cas's hand strokes his cock. He takes his time, fingers exploring the length, every vein and fold until Dean can't tell up from down anymore.

"Cas. Cas — oh _fuck_." 

Dean's toes curl as Cas tightens his grip, movements growing strong and sure, squeezing on the upstroke before shifting, fingers teasing as they trail down, lower, sticky palm running down to cup his balls, muting the impending urgency of orgasm. Dean lets out a harsh breath and buries his face deeper, letting out a low groan of appreciation when Cas' hand finds his dick again, twisting lightly over the tip. 

Cas pulls back just enough that Dean can't hide anymore, blue eyes raking over him. Dean squirms a little, but Cas has him by his hip, his shoulder, and his wrist, and Dean couldn't move him if he tried.

His left eyebrow quirks up. "Do you want me to let you go?"

Dean's pretty sure his body is one entire blush and the urge to shy away is overpowering, but he's losing his goddamn mind with the idle way Cas is stroking his dick, quickly pushing him right up to the edge again. "Fuck, no," Dean breathes out, earning a smile from this kinky son of a bitch. "Just — " he rolls his hips as much as he can under Cas' weight, dick slapping wetly against his stomach. "Fuck, Cas. _Please_."

Cas swirls a thumb over the head of Dean's cock, mirroring what Dean was doing to Cas earlier with his tongue. "I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific."

His mouth is parted, outlined in that filthy spit-slick shine, and Dean focuses on that, too strung out on want and need to form a coherent fucking sentence, settles for canting his hips against a non-stop babble of _pleasefuckdon'tstop_.

Cas kisses him, all soft lips and rough cheeks and Dean loses himself in it, follows his lead as Cas presses him down into the mattress, strokes coming tighter and faster. When Cas pulls back Dean opens his eyes and stares, caught in twin beams of underwater-light. He has no idea how he understands the question but hell _yes_ he's on board, wide-open and willing to whatever Cas is asking permission for.

It starts off slow, and builds like an orgasm; heat pooling in his gut, bright and burning and familiar, before snapping like a ripcord, engulfing him in a parachute of pleasure. Dean's back rises off the bed in an arch and his eyes roll back, vision whiting-out.

" _Christ_ ," Dean says again, when he comes down.

"You're stunning," Cas tells him, and Dean might blush if he had the energy.

He stares at the ceiling for a long time, waiting until the imperfections in the stone come into focus. He feels tingly all-over, little pebbles rolling across his skin in gentle waves. A warm hand is trailing his torso, fingers feather-touch against his skin. Dean shifts a little closer to it, and becomes acutely aware of the sticky wetness between his thighs. There's sweat pooling in the valley of his collarbone, and the come on his chest is starting to dry and become tacky.

"Gross," he manages, and wonders what the hell he did with his shirt. "Can you pass me a — anything?" 

The hand on his hip smooths out, blooms with renewed warmth, and the stickiness disappears along with the rest of the gross. "Better?"

Dean blinks down at clean torso and raises his eyebrows. Well if _that_ ain't hell of a bonus.

Cas is laid out beside him, idle hands still wandering, but his eyes don't stray from Dean's face. Dean's caught by it for a minute, the dark glint there new and a little terrifying and kind of a huge turn-on. 

Dean drops his head back on the pillow and exhales. "I'm gonna need like a half an hour if you wanna go another round."

Fingertips explore the dips in Dean's ribs, ghost along the edge of a nipple. Dean shudders. "We don't have to."

"We don't," Dean agrees, closing his eyes. He needs a shot and a nap, in that order. "Definitely goes in the pro-column, though." He cracks open an eye, watching Cas' expression even though he can't hope to read it, because maybe he's got it all wrong. He's the one that started it, after all. "I mean, you want to, right?"

The look Cas gives him makes Dean shiver all over, and just in case his intent wasn't clear, presses a slow, wet kiss against the Dean's side, stubble scratching at the soft skin there. "Yes, Dean. Very much."

"Okay. Good. Glad we got that settled." Dean inhales through his nose and lets it out through his mouth, settling into the warm sheets and the warmer body beside him, mumbling, "We should've done that weeks ago."

"I wasn't sure," Cas starts, and Dean looks up when he doesn't finish. Cas blushes, which is new and kind of exciting all on its own, really. "That maybe you wouldn't want to. Because I'm — "

"An idiot," Dean finishes for him. But that really isn't fair, because Cas doesn't know how this shit works and Dean _should_ , by now, but Cas isn't the only one who's been an idiot about this. Dean rubs a hand over his face and flops over, curling an arm around Cas' waist. "I feel like we need to institute some kind of honesty-policy to keep this from happening."

"Honesty policy?" Cas parrots, squinting at him.

Dean rolls his eyes to the ceiling. "The definition's in the name, Cas."

+

"You're being an idiot again," Dean says.

"I'm not attempting to be." Castiel grounds down his frustration. For all the years he's known Dean, all the weeks he's known him intimately, there is still a lot to learn going on in the spaces left between them. It's a precarious balance, maintaining just the right distance at just the right time, knowing when to gravitate closer. "I just don't understand. Do you not like our current arrangement?"

Warm hands slip around his waist, thumbs rubbing circles against his skin though the fabric of his shirt. Dean leans down to press a chaste kiss against his throat, a show of affection he tends to keep private and Castiel prefers it that way, enjoys keeping this softer side of Dean all to himself.

"Yeah, Cas, I like it." The warm breath against his skin is pleasant, and Castiel closes his eyes and leans into it, but Dean pulls back. "That doesn't mean you can't have a space all to yourself. It's not like we ever get enough visitors to use it for anything else."

Castiel looks around the top floor conservatory. It's changed a lot since Dean first cleared it out with Castiel's help; the stone walls are free of plant life, the lightbulbs all replaced, and the sun filters in through crystal-clear windows. The kitchenette has been scrubbed clean, too, and outfitted with a mini-fridge and a microwave. The ensuite bathroom still needs some work, but the toilet flushes and the water runs hot. A large bed is the only piece of furniture on the north side, with clean soft sheets and a grey duvet. 

"I don't sleep," Castiel reminds him.

"That's not the point." Dean drops his hands and sighs. "Look, if you don't want it — "

"I didn't say that," Castiel says quickly, sensing that subtle shift as Dean gets embarrassed by his own thoughtfulness. Castiel realizes he's misunderstood, and he appreciates the gesture, however unnecessary. He reaches out to reel Dean back in and Dean rolls his eyes but comes easily, teeth nipping gently at Castiel's jaw. "But rather than _mine_ , I would much prefer this to be _ours_."

"Mi casa, su casa," Dean mumbles distractedly into his neck. "We can at least break in that bed."

Dean has Castiel trapped between his body and the counter, slipping a thigh between his legs. Castiel bites down on his lip and pushes back, hands creeping up under the back of his shirt, fingers dragging heavy across his skin. Dean has to know he can't hold him but he tries anyway, grinding down until Castiel comes up for air, panting heavily against his neck, and makes an involuntary noise that has Dean biting down hard on his shoulder.

Castiel grabs the backs of his thighs and lifts, spinning them around and planting Dean on the counter. Dean gasps as Castiel's teeth find his throat and move lower, tugging Dean's shirt out of the way while the other hand drifts down, cupping him through his jeans.

"Cas," Dean pants above him. "The bed is _right there_ — "

"Good _lord_ ," someone behind them shouts. "Get a room, you two."

Dean has his gun up before he breaks away, levelled over Castiel's shoulder. Castiel interprets the burst emotions as they flicker through him, one after another; surprise, then dread, followed quickly by sheer annoyance. He slips off the counter and steps around Castiel smoothly, but stays close.

"I come in peace," Gabriel says, raising his hands and wings as one in a gesture of surrender. "Don't shoot the messenger."

"Give me one good reason," Dean growls out, but lowers the gun. "What do you want?"

"Me? Not much. A couple of Victoria's Secret models, a bottle of Cheval Bordeaux, world peace," he says, dropping his hands and giving a one-shoulder shrug. He rolls his eyes when Dean crosses his arms over his chest and fixes him with a glare. "Y'know, you may have been a pain in the ass, but you were a lot more fun when you were a demon."

"Oh, believe me, I can still show you a good time," Dean says, hackles rising, but settles when Castiel slides a hand gently over the small of his back. "I don't care, okay? Whatever it is, do us both a favor and shove it up your ass."

"Really don't know what you see in him," Gabriel says, feigning a whisper in Castiel's direction. "I like my ass the way it is, thanks. I really don't care what you do — my brother included — I was just asked to broker a meeting."

"With who?" Dean's heart rate elevates a little, and Castiel trails his fingers along his spine, up and down, willing it to settle. "Someone who doesn't know how to use a phone?"

"He says you've been rejecting his calls. That's rude, Dean." Gabriel smirks, left corner of his mouth twisting sharply upwards. "The King of Hell would like to see you."

There's a pause where Dean's heart skips a beat, then kicks up a faster rhythm. "Tell him he can shove it up his ass, too."

"With that sort of rapier wit, no wonder you woo'd my lil' bro."

"Is that all? Because I was kinda in the middle of something."

"Yeah, spare me the details," Gabriel says with a grimace. "But in the interest of full disclosure, he might just take you up on that."

Dean rolls his eyes and looks at Castiel, then narrows them. "What? You think I should talk to that asshole?"

Castiel is watching his brother carefully; for all his tricks, he never was good at disguising unease. "It's about Michael, isn't it?"

"Ding-ding, tell him what's he won, Don!" Gabriel's smirk holds for a moment before dropping off, slipping off his face like a shadow. "As much as I hate to interrupt the honeymoon, guys, you two lovebirds are needed in Hades."

+

Dean flat-out refuses to go anywhere near Hell, with or without an archangel escort, so the meeting takes place on the old cemetery outside Lawrence. A fresh foot of snow covers the field as far as Dean can see in every direction, making the place look pristine. Maybe Crowley thinks it's funny meeting here, like it means anything except a collection of bad memories. Maybe that's the point.

The king looks more or less the same, but Dean can't see the snake behind the smirk anymore, the vast wings of red smoke that once threatened to engulf him. He looks Dean up and down and doesn't quite smile. "Miss me?"

Dean inhales through his nose and wills his temper down. It's been weeks since the mark on his arm itched, and he doesn't want to scratch at it, especially not because of this asshole. "You got five minutes, Crowley."

"You have somewhere more important to be?"

"Anywhere but here, yeah," Dean shoots back. "What do you want?"

"Maybe I just wanted to see how you're... adjusting." And Dean's sure that's one of things on his list, looking to see if there's any of the demon left behind, any fuel for the mark he can exploit. "You look good, Dean."

"Four and half," Dean snaps.

Crowley glances at the angels over his shoulder and cocks his head to the side. "Walk with me?"

Cas' hand catches his arm, but Dean shrugs him off. "It's fine," Dean says, rubbing a thumb along the back of Cas' wrist. He glances at Gabriel. "Keep an eye on him, though."

"Yeah, 'cause _I'm_ the one you need to keep an eye on here, obviously," Gabriel complains.

Crowley doesn't wait for him, forcing Dean to jog to catch up. He strolls quietly for the first minute while Dean silently counts down in his head. He wasn't kidding about the five minutes, and if Crowley wants to waste it, it's not skin off his back.

"I don't think you realize the precarious position you've put me in," Crowley starts off with, like Dean gives a flying fuck. "Oh, sure, you don't care _now_. But see if you're singing the same tune when Michael nukes his way out of Hell and back to Earth."

"Same song, different tune," Dean shoots back. "Nothing's gonna change. If it isn't Michael, it's Lucifer. If it isn't Lucifer, it's _you_. We've always came out on top before. We'll deal with it when we have to."

"That sort of bravado only suited you when you were one of us. We should be dealing with it _now_." Crowley shoves his hands in his pockets and glares up at the sun like its insulted him. "Every day we waste up here, months go by in Hell."

"Sounds like you should get back to work then, your Highness."

"Glad to see your sarcasm is still intact. Lucifer did you all a favor, you know. Before he convinced Gadreel to open the gates, you were so _boring_. Never would've amounted to anything. Adam and Eve would've just sat around naked, preaching peace and love like a couple of hippies," he says, and maybe he's right, but there never would have been any suffering, either. "Sleep, sex, free will, the best things in life? They're all thanks to sin, one way or another."

"Maybe," Dean allows. "You gonna get around to telling me what you want, or did you just want to take a stroll through the park?"

"I just want to know you're onboard." When Dean just glares at him, Crowley rolls his eyes. "Big picture, Dean. Michael and Lucifer aren't just my problem, they just happen to be locked up in my basement. When they get out, the whole city burns down. I want to make sure you're prepared to do what you have to."

"And what is that, exactly?"

Crowley casts his eyes over the field where the two angels stand, black and red wings side-by-side, before looking back at Dean, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. "Whatever is required."

"Okay, whatever," Dean says "Your five minutes are up."

Crowley glowers at him and Dean braces himself, for the first time in months feeling naked without the First Blade in his hand. Crowley's eyes follow the line of his arm down, landing heavy on the mark beneath his jacket. "See you don't go cashing in that blessing just yet," he says, walking away. "And keep that knife close."

+

"You can come back, you know." Gabriel's watching Dean and Crowley stalk the other end of the field, but looks over when Castiel doesn't answer. "To Heaven, if you want."

Castiel squints at him, tries to focus on his eyes, but they're washed out by the bright afternoon light reflecting off the snow. "But I — "

"I know what you did," Gabriel says. "So what? We're all guilty of something. And if Dean can forgive you, then fuck everybody else. Besides, those idiots put me in charge. _Me_ ," he says again, laughing like he can't quite believe it. He extends his wings, stretching, letting them soak up the sun's rays. "I could use you up there. I'm no good at the day-to-day shit. Michael was a tyrant, but at least he kept the place going, and it was never _boring_. Trying to herd those sad sacks of grace is about as interesting as watching paint dry."

"I'm sure you'll figure something out," Castiel says, and looks back out over the horizon. Dean and Crowley have stopped walking and are facing each other. Castiel could listen in, but Dean will tell him what was said later, if he wants to share. "I appreciate the offer, but I'm happy where I am."

"Yeah, I can see that. Didn't do too shabby for yourself, bro." Castiel looks back at him, curious. Gabriel smirks. "Baggin' the Michael Sword. Tell you what, when Michael does get out, he's gonna be _pissed_."

"Dean isn't mine," Castiel insists, because he isn't. Dean will always be Michael's true vessel, even if Dean reserves the right to serve that purpose. That's the way it's always been. " _In his right hand he held seven stars, from his mouth came a sharp two-edged sword —_ "

"Stop quoting scripture at me and look at what's in front of you." Gabriel jerks his chin at Dean, who's making his way back. The sun turns his hair golden, light glancing off his fringe like a halo, and he's frowning at the ground until he looks up and catches Castiel's eyes. The edge of his lips quirk upward into a smile. "He was never Michael's, you idiot," Gabriel goes on. "The minute you dragged him out of Hell, he was yours, Cas. He chose you."

By the time Dean reaches him, Gabriel is gone, though the heat of his grace lingers just enough to chase away most of the chill. Crowley's nowhere to be seen. "Everything all right?"

"Huh? Yeah. I think so." Dean blinks in the bright light, shielding his eyes from the sun. "For now, anyway."

"And you?" Dean looks over at him, brows pinched together, and Castiel clarifies: "Are you all right?"

Dean almost rolls his eyes and then sighs, leaning back against the fence. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Something about the tilt of his brow makes Castiel uneasy, but it could just be the light. "Honesty policy?"

"Already?" Dean scuffs the ground his boot, blows warmth into his hands and leans his shoulder against Castiel's. When Castiel pulls his hands over to keep them warm, Dean laces their fingers together, carefully weaving the digits until they fit into place, like pieces of a puzzle. "Yeah, Cas. I'm good."

+

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me [here](http://jadstiel.tumblr.com/) and [here](https://twitter.com/jadstiel) and also sometimes [here](http://jad.livejournal.com/).


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